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The 

Laurel  Speaker 


FoR^   Boys 


'*  Bear  up,  my  brave  comrades  ;  three  days  shall  decide." — Page  114 


THE 


Laurel  Speaker 

HEROIC  CLASSIC 
VERSE  FOR  BOYS 


NELW    YORK 
MGLOUGHLIN     BROTHERS 


Copyright,  icx^  by 
McLouGHLiN  Bros.,  New  York, 

EDUCATION  DEPT^ 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The  Love  of  Country 7 

Rocks  of  My  Country 8 

My  Father's  Sword 9 

Bannockburn            10 

The    Old    Continentals 12 

Fall  of  Warsaw,  1794* 14« 

The  Battle  of  Hohenlinden,  1800 17 

Song  of  Marion's  Men 18 

Philip  Van  Artevelde  to  the  Men  of  Ghent     .     .  21 

Wat  Tyler's  Address  to  the  King 24* 

The    Soldier's    Dream 26 

General  Scott  and  the  Veteran 27 

The     Color-Bearer 31 

The  Picket-Guard 33 

The  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade S6 

The  Death  Ride 38 

The  Bayonet  Charge 40 

The  Bon  Homme  Richard 43 

Clear  the  Way 48 

The  Soldier  From  Bingen 50 

Sheridan's  Ride 55 

Burial  of  the  Minnisink 5S 

Only  A  Stable  Boy 60 

Paul  Revere's  Ride 62 

How  They  Brought  the  Good  News  From  Ghent 

TO  Aix 67 

The  O'Kavanagh 71 

The   Death   of  Marmion 74 

"Stonewall  Jackson's  Way" 76 

Kearney  at  Seven  Pines .  78 

"The  Brigade  Must  Not  Know,  Sir!"     ....  80 

The  Bonnets  of  Bonny  Dundee,  1689     ....  82 

The    Dandy    Fifth 86 

The  Famine 90 

Fate  of  Charles  the  Twelfth 97 

3 


ivi69834 


4  CONTENTS 

The    True    King QQ 

Incident  of  the  French  Camp 100 

William  Tell  Describes  His  Escape 102 

The  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore 104 

The  Cavalier's  Escape 105 

Richelieu  and  France 107 

Cromwell  on  the  Death  of  Charles  the  First     .  109 

The  Glove Ill 

Three  Days  in  the  Life  of  Columbus 114 

Destruction  of  the  Philistines 119 

The   Fireman 124 

A  Border  Ballad 126 

Danny  Deever 129 

A  Ballad  of  Athlone  ;  or  How  They  Broke  Down 

the  Bridge 131 

The  Dying  Gladiator 133 

George   Nidiver 134 

Silver-Shoe         137 

jMazeppa's    Ride 141 

moncontour        153 

William  Tell  Among  the  Mountains  .     .     .     .     .  154 

The  Execution  of  Montrose 156 

Screw  Guns         159 

A  Cavalry  Song l62 

Kosciusko  and  Poland l63 

The  Private  of  the  Buffs .     .  164 

The  Soldier's  Return l66 

The  Charge  at  Waterloo 168 

The  March  to  Moscow 170 

The  Lord  of  Butrago 174 

The  Broadswords  of  Scotland 176 

Balaklava 178 

The  Last  Buccanier 182 

Lock  the  Door,  Lariston 185 

Officers  Did  It  All         187 

Monterey        189 

MacGregors    Gathering 190 

Bivouac  of  the   Dead 192 


^ 


Blessings  be  with  them,  and  eternal  praise 
Who  gave  us  nobler  loves,  and  nobler  cares— 
The  poets  who  on  earth  have  made  us  heirs 
Of  truth  and  pure  delight  by  heavenly  lays  ! 

■—Wordsworth. 


t^ 


^ 


4 


THE  LOVE  OF  COUNTRY. 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 

Breathes  there  a  man  with  soul  so  dead, 
Who  never  to  himself  hath  said, 
"This  is  my  own,  my  native  land"? 
Whose  heart  hath  ne'er  within  his  burned 
As  home  his  footsteps  he  hath  turned. 
From  wandering  on  a  foreign  strand? 
If  such  there  breathe,  go,  mark  him  well 
For  him  no  minstrel  raptures  swell ! 
High  though  his  titles,  proud  his  name 
Boundless  his  wealth  as  wish  can  claim; 
Despite  those  titles,  power,  and  pelf. 
The  wretch  concentred  all  in  self 
Living,  shall  forfeit  fair  renown, 
And,  doubly  dying,  shall  go  down 
To  the  vile  dust,  from  whence  he  sprung, 
Unwept,  unhonored,  and  unsung. 


8  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

ROCKS  OF  MY  COUNTRY. 

MRS.  HEMA'NS. 

Ilocks  of  my  country!  let  the  cloud  your  crested 

heights  array, 
And  rise  ye,  like  a  fortress  proud,  above  the  surge 

and  spray! 
My  spirit  greets  you  as  ye  stand,  breasting  the 

billow's  foam: 
0 1  thus  forever  guard  the  land,  the  severed  Land 

of  Home ! 

I  have  left  rich  blue  SKies  behind,  lighting  up 

classic  shrines. 
And  music  in  the  southern  wind,  and  sunshine  on 

the  vines. 
The  breathings  of  the  myrtle-flowers  have  floated 

o'er  my  way, 
The  pilgrim's  voice,  at  vesper-hours,  hath  soothed 

me  with  its  lay. 

The  Isles  of  Greece,  the  Hills  of   Spain,  the 

purple  Heavens  of  Rome, 
Yes,  all  are  glorious; — yet  again  I  bless  thee. 

Land  of  Home! 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  9 

For  thine  the  Sabbath  peace,  my  land!  and  thine 

the  guarded  hearth, 
And  thine  the  dead,  the  noble  band,  that  make 

thee  holy  earth. 

Their  voices  meet  me  in  thy  breeze,  their  steps 

are  on  thy  plains ; 
Their  names  by  old  majestic  trees  are  whispered 

round  thy  fanes. 
Their  blood  hath  mingled  with  the  tide  of  thine 

exulting  sea; 
O !  be  it  still  a  joy,  a  pride,  to  live  and  die  for  thee! 


MY  FATHER'S  SWORD. 

THOS.  HAYNES  BAYLY. 

My  father's  sword  upon  the  wall 

Has  slumbered  since  his  death ; 
Oh,  give  it  me,  for  now  'tis  time 

To  throw  away  the  sheath. 
,Too  long  I've  been  content  to  wear 

The  laurels  that  he  won ; 
Give  me  the  sword — and  it  shall  gain 

New  laurels  for  his  son ! 


IC  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

My  father's  sword !  Oh,  blame  me  not, 

Though  tears  bedew  the  steel ; 
Though  nerveless  now  may  fall  my  arm. 

It  is  not  fear  I  feel. 
I  weep  to  think  how  oft  his  hand 

Hath  laid  aside  that  sword. 
While  he  hath  stoop'd  to  kiss  my  brow. 

And  breathe  some  gentle  word. 

My  father^s  sword! — this  silken  knot 

My  own  dear  mother  wove. 
Take  hence  the  weapon — let  it  grace 

The  halls  she  used  to  love. 
Give  me  another, — if  my  prayer 

In  after  years  be  heard — 
It  shall  not  be  unfit  to  hang 

Beside  my  father's  sword. 


BANNOCKBURN. 

ROBERT  BURNS. 
Bruce* s  Address  to  His  Army. 

Scots,  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled, 
Scots,  wham  Bruce  has  aften  led; 
Welcome  to  your  gory  bed, 
Or  to  glorious  victorie. 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  11 

Now's  the  day,  and  now's  the  hour, 
See  the  front  o'  battle  lour ; 
See  approach  proud  Edward's  power — 
Edward !  chains  and  slaverie. 

Wha  will  be  a  traitor  knave? 
Wha  can  fill  a  coward's  grave? 
Wha  sae  base  as  be  a  slave? 

Traitor !  coward !  turn  and  flee, 

Wha  for  Scotland's  king  and  law 
Freedom's  sw^ord  will  strongly  draw. 
Freeman  stand  or  freeman  fa' ; 
Caledonian!  on  wi'  me! 

By  oppression's  woes  and  pains! 
By  your  sons  in  servile  chains, 
We  will  drain  our  dearest  veins. 

But  they  shall, — they  shall  be  free ! 

Lay  the  proud  usurpers  low! 
Tyrants  fall  in  every  foe! 
Liberty's  in  every  blow! 

Forward!  let  us  do,  or  die! 


12  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

THE  OLD  CONTINENTALS. 

GUY   HUMPHREY  MCMASTER. 

In  their  ragged  regimentals 
Stood  the  old  Continentals, 

Yielding  not, 
When  the  Grenadiers  were  lunging, 
And  Hke  hail  fell  the  plunging 
Cannon-shot : 
When  the  files 
Of  the  isles, 
From  the  smoky  night  encampment,  bore  the  ban- 
ner of  the  rampant 
Unicorn, 
And  grummer,  grummer,  grummer  rolled  the 
roll  of  the  drummer. 

Through  the  morn ! 

Then  with  eyes  to  the  front  all. 
And  with  guns  horizontal, 

Stood  our  sires ; 
And  the  balls  whistled  deadly. 
And  in  streams  flashing  redly 

Blazed  the  fires ; 

As  the  roar 

On  the  shore, 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  13 

Swept  the  strong  battle-breakers  o'er  the  green- 
sodded  acres 

Of  the  plain; 
And  louder,  louder,  louder,  cracked  the  black 
gunpowder, 

Cracking  amain ! 

Now  like  smiths  at  their  forges 
Worked  the  red  St.  George's 
Cannoniers ; 
And  the  "villainous  saltpetre" 
Rang  a  fierce,  discordant  metre 
Round  their  ears ; 
As  the  swift 
Storm-drift, 
With  hot  sweeping  anger,  came  the  horse-guards' 
clangor 

On  our  flanks. 
Then  higher,   higher,   higher,   burned  the   old- 
fashioned  fire 

Through  the  ranks ! 

Then  the  old-fashioned  Colonel 
Galloped  through  the  white  infernal 

Powder-cloud; 
And  his  broad  sword  was  swinging, 


14  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

And  his  brazen  throat  was  ringing 
Trumpet  loud. 
Then  the  blue 
Bullets  flew, 
And  the  trooper- jackets  redden  at  the  touch  of 
the  leaden 

Rifle-breath. 
And  rounder,  rounder,  rounder,  roared  the  iron 
six-pounder. 

Hurling  death! 


FALL  OF  WARSAW. 

1794 

THOMAS  CAMPBELL. 

O!  sacred  Truth!  thy  triumph  ceased  a  while. 
And  Hope,  thy  sister,  ceased  with  thee  to  smile, 
When  leagued  Oppression  poured  to  Northern 

wars 
Her  whiskered  pandours  and  her  fierce  hussars 
Waved  her  dread  standard  to  the  breeze  of  mom, 
Pealed  her  loud  drum,  and  twanged  her  trumpet 

horn: 
Timiultuous  horror  brooded  o'er  her  van. 
Presaging  wrath  to  Poland — and  to  man! 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  15 

Warsaw's  last  champion  from  her  heights  sur- 
veyed 
Wide  o'er  the  fields  a  waste  of  ruin  laid — 
O  Heaven!  he  cried,  my  bleeding  country  save! 
Is  there  no  hand  on  high  to  shield  the  brave? 
Yet,  though  destruction  sweep  these  lovely  plains. 
Rise,  fellow-men !  our  country  yet  remains ! 
By  that  dread  name,  we  wave  the  sword  on  high. 
And  swear  for  her  to  live ! — with  her  to  die ! 

He  said ;  and  on  the  rampart  heights  arrayed 
His  trusty  warriors,  few,  but  undismayed ; 
Firm  paced  and  slow,  a  horrid  front  they  form, 
Still  as  the  breeze,  but  dreadful  as  the  storm ; 
Low,   murmuring   sounds  along   their  banners 

fly.- 

''Revenge,  or  death!" — the  watchword  and  reply; 
Then  pealed  the  notes,  omnipotent  to  charm, 
And  the  loud  tocsin  tolled  their  last  alarm! 

In  vain,  alas!  in  vain,  ye  gallant  few! 
From  rank  to  rank  your  volleyed  thunder  flew, — 
O !  bloodiest  picture  in  the  book  of  Time, 
Sarmatia  fell,  unwept,  without  a  crime; 
Found  not  a  generous  friend,  a  pitying  foe. 
Strength  in  her  arms,  nor  mercy  in  her  woe ! 
Dropped  from  her  nerveless  grasp  the  shattered 

spear, 
Closed  her  bright  eye,  and  curbed  her  high  career. 


16  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

Hope  for  a  season,  bade  the  world. farewell, 
And  Freedom  shrieked,  as  Kosciusko  fell! 

O  righteous  Heaven!  ere  Freedom  found  a 
grave. 
Why  slept  the  sword,  omnipotent  to  save? 
Where  was  thine  arm,  O  vengeance!  where  thj^ 

rod. 
That  smote  the  foes  of  Sion  and  of  God? 

Departed  spirits  of  the  mighty  dead ! 
Ye  that  at  Marathon  and  Leuctra  bled  I 
Friends  of  the  world !  restore  your  swords  to  man, 
Fight  in  his  sacred  cause,  and  lead  the  van ! 
Yet  for  Sarmatia's  tears  of  blood  atone. 
And  make  her  arm  puissant  as  your  own ! 
O !  once  again  to  Freedom's  cause  return : 
The  patriot  Tell, — the  Bruce  of  Bannockburn. 

Yes,  thy  proud  lords,  unpitied  land !  shall  see 
That  man  hath  yet  a  soul, — and  dare  be  free ! 
A  little  while,  along  thy  saddening  plains, 
The  starless  night  of  Desolation  reigns ; 
Truth  shall  restore  the  light  by  Nature  given. 
And,  like  Prometheus,  bring  the  fire  of  Heaven ! 
Prone  to  the  dust  Oppression  shall  be  hurled. 
Her  name,  her  nature,  withered  from  the  world  I 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  17 

THE  BATTLE  OF  HOHENLINDEN, 

1800. 

THOMAS  CAMPBELL. 

On  Linden  when  the  sun  was  low. 
All  bloodless  lay  the  untrodden  snow 
And  dark  as  winter  was  the  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 

But  Linden  saw  another  sight, 
When  the  drum  beat  at  dead  of  night, 
Commanding  fires  of  death  to  light 
The  darkness  of  her  scenery. 

By  torch  and  trumpet  fast  arrayed, 
Each  warrior  drew  his  battle-blade. 
And  furious  every  charger  neighed, 
To  join  the  dreadful  revelry. 

Then  shook  the  hills  with  thunder  riven, 
Then  rushed  the  steeds  to  battle  driven. 
And  louder  than  the  bolts  of  Heaven 
Far  flashed  the  red  artillery. 

And  redder  yet  those  fires  shall  glow 
On  Linden's  hills  of  blood-stained  snow. 


18  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

And  darker  yet  shall  be  the  flow 
Of  Iser  rolling  rapidly. 

'T  is  morn;  but  scarce  yon  lurid  sun 
Can  pierce  the  war-clouds,  rolling  dun, 
While  furious  Frank  and  fiery  Hun 
Shout  in  their  sulphurous  canopy. 

The  combat  deepens.    On,  ye  brave, 
Who  rush  to  glory,  or  the  grave ! 
Wave,  Munich,  all  thy  banners  w  ave 
And  charge  with  all  thy  chivalry. 

Ah!  few  shall  part  where  many  meet. 
The  snow  shall  be  their  winding-sheet. 
Arid  every  turf  beneath  their  feet 
Shall  be  a  soldier's  sepulchre. 


SONG  OF  MARION'S  MEN. 

WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT. 

Our  band  is  few,  but  true  and  tried. 
Our  leader  frank  and  bold; 

The  British  soldier  trembles 
When  Marion's  name  is  told. 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  19 

Our  fortress  is  the  good  greenwood, 

Our  tent  the  cypress-tree ; 
We  know  the  forest  round  us, 

As  seamen  know  the  sea; 
We  know  its  walks  of  thorny  vines. 

Its  glades  of  reedy  grass 
Its  safe  and  silent  islands 

Within  the  dark  morass. 


Woe  to  the  English  soldiery 

That  little  dread  us  near! 
On  them  shall  light  at  midnight 

A  strange  and  sudden  fear; 
When,  waking  to  their  tents  on  fire, 

They  grasp  their  arms  in  vain. 
And  they  who  stand  to  face  us 

Are  beat  to  earth  again ; 
And  they  who  fly  in  terror  deem 

A  mighty  host  behind, 
And  hear  the  tramp  of  thousands 

Upon  the  hollow  wind. 

Then  sweet  the  hour  that  brings  release 
From  danger  and  from  toil; 

We  talk  the  battle  over. 
And  share  the  battle's  spoil. 


20  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

The  woodland  rings  with  laugh  and  shout, 

As  if  a  hunt  were  up, 
And  woodland  flowers  are  gathered 

To  crown  the  soldier's  cup. 
With  merry  songs  we  mock  the  wind 

That  in  the  pine-top  grieves. 
And  slumber  long  and  sweetly 

On  beds  of  oaken  leaves.        » 

Well  knows  the  fair  and  friendly  moon 

The  band  that  Marion  leads — 
The  glitter  of  their  rifles. 

The  scampering  of  their  steeds. 
'T  is  life  to  guide  the  fiery  barb 

Across  the  moonlight  plain; 
'T  is  life  to  feel  the  night- wind 

That  lifts  his  tossing  mane. 
A  moment  in  the  British  camp — 

A  moment — and  away. 
Back  to  the  pathless  forest, 

Before  the  peep  of  day. 

Grave  men  there  are  by  broad  Santee, 
Grave  men  with  hoary  hairs; 

Their  hearts  are  all  with  Marion, 
For  Marion  are  their  prayers. 

And  lovely  ladies  greet  our  band, 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER    .  21 

With  kindest  welcoming, 
With  smiles  like  those  of  summer. 

And  tears  like  those  of  spring. 
For  them  we  wear  these  trusty  arms, 

And  lay  them  down  no  more 
Till  we  have  driven  the  Briton, 

Forever,  from  our  shore. 


PHILIP   VAN  ARTEVELDE  TO   THE 
MEN  OF  GHENT. 

HENRY  TAYLOR. 

Sirs,  ye  have  heard  these  knights  discourse  to 
you 
Of  your  ill  fortunes,  telling  on  their  fingers 
The  worthy  leaders  ye  have  lately  lost. 
True,  they  were  worthy  men,  most  gallant  chiefs ; 
And  ill  would  it  become  us  to  make  light 
Of  the  great  loss  we  suffer  by  their  fall 
They  died  like  heroes ;  for  no  recreant  step 
Had  e'er  dishonored  them,  no  stain  of  fear. 
No  base  despair,  no  cowardly  recoil. 
They  had  the  hearts  of  freemen  to  the  last. 
And  the  free  blood  that  bounded  in  their  veins 


22  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

Was  shed  for  freedom  with  a  Uberal  joy. 

But  had  they  guessed,  or  could  they  but  have 

dreamed, 
The  great  examples  which  they  died  to  show 
Should  fall  so  flat,  should  shine  so  fruitless  here, 
That  men  should  say,  "For  liberty  these  died, 
Wherefore  let  us  be  slaves," — had  they  thought 

this. 
O,  then,  with  what  an  agony  of  shame. 
Their  blushing  faces  buried  in  the  dust. 
Had  their  great  spirits  parted  hence  for  Heaven! 
What !  shall  we  teach  our  chroniclers  henceforth 
To  write,  that  in  five  bodies  were  contained 
The  sole  brave  hearts  of  Ghent!  which  five  de- 
funct. 
The  heartless  town,  by  brainless  counsel  led, 
Delivered  up  her  keys,  stript  oif  her  robes. 
And  so  with  all  humility  besought 
Her  haughty  Lord  that  he  would  scourge  her 

lightly? 
It  shall  not  be — no,  verily !  for  now, 
Thus  looking  on  you  as  ye  stand  before  me, 
Mine  eye  can  single  out  full  many  a  man 
Who  lacks  but  opportunity  to  shine 
As  great  and  glorious  as  the  chiefs  that  fell. 
But,  lo!  the  Earl  is  ''mercifully  minded!" 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  23 

And,  surely,  if  we,  rather  than  revenge 
The  slaughter  of  our  bravest,  cry  them  shame, 
And  fall  upon  our  knees,  and  say  we've  sinned. 
Then  will  my  Lord  the  Earl  have  mercy  on  us, 
And  pardon  us  our  strike  for  liberty ! 

O,  Sirs!  look  round  you,  lest  ye  be  deceived. 
Forgiveness  may  be  spoken  with  the  tongue, 
Forgiveness  may  be  written  with  the  pen. 
But  think  not  that  the  parchment  and  mouth 

pardon 
Will  e'er  eject  old  hatreds  from  the  heart. 
There's  that  betwixt  you  been  which  men  remem- 
ber. 
Till  they  forget  themselves,  till  all 's  forgot, — 
Till  the  deep  sleep  falls  on  them  in  that  bed 
From  which  no  morrow's  mischief  rouses  them. 
There's  that  betwixt  you  been  which  you  your- 
selves. 
Should  ye  forget,  would  then  not  be  yourselves ; 
For  must  it  not  be  thought  some  base  men's  souls 
Have  ta'en  the  seats  of  yours  and  turned  you  out. 
If,  in  the  coldness  of  a  craven  heart, 
Ye  should  forgive  this  bloody-minded  man 
For  all  his  black  and  murderous  monstrous  crimes ! 


24  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

WAT  TYLER'S  ADDRESS  TO  THE 
KING. 

ROBERT  SOUTHEY. 

King  of  England, 
Petitioning  for  pity  is  most  weak, — 
The  sovereign  People  ought  to  demand  justice. 
I  lead  them  here  against  the  Lord's  anointed, 
Because  his  Ministers  have  made  him  odious! 
His  yoke  is  heavy,  and  his  burden  grievous. 
Why  do  ye  carry  on  this  fatal  war. 
To  force  upon  the  French  a  King  they  hate ; 
Tearing  our  young  men   from  their  peaceful 

homes. 
Forcing  his  hard-earned  fruits  from  the  honest 

peasant. 
Distressing  us  to  desolate  our  neighbors? 
Why  is  this  ruinous  poll-tax  imposed. 
But  to  support  your  Court's  extravagance. 
And  your  mad  title  to  the  Crown  of  France? 
Shall  we  sit  tamely  down  beneath  these  evils,' 
Petitioning  for  pity?    King  of  England, 
Why  are  we  sold  like  cattle  in  your  markets, 
Deprived  of  every  privilege  of  man? 
Must  we  lie  tamely  at  our  tyrant's  feet. 
And,  like  your  spaniels,  lick  the  hand  that  beats 

us? 


A  ^lonuMit  in  the  British  cam}) — 
A  moment — and  away.  — Pa oe  50. 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  25 

You  sit  at  ease  in  your  gay  palaces: 

The  costly  banquet  courts  your  appetite; 

Sweet  music  soothes  your  slumbers :  we,  the  while, 

Scarce  by  hard  toil  can  earn  a  little  food, 

And  sleep  scarce  sheltered  from  the  cold  night 

wind; 
Whilst  your  wild  projects  wrest  the  little  from  us 
Which  might  have  cheered  the  wintry  hours  of 

age! 
The  Parliament  forever  asks  more  money; 
We  toil  and  sweat  for  money  for  your  taxes ; 
Where  is  the  benefit, — ^what  good  reap  we 
From  all  the  counsels  of  your  government? 
Think   you   that    we   should    quarrel    with   the 

French? 
What  boots  to  us  your  victories,  your  glory? 
We  pay,  we  fight, — you  profit  at  your  ease! 
Do  you  not  claim  the  country  as  your  own? 
Do  you  not  call  the  venison  of  the  forest. 
The  birds  of  Heaven,  your  own? — prohibiting  us. 
Even  though  in  want  of  food,  to  seize  the  prey 
Which  Nature  offers?    King!  is  all  this  just? 
Think  you  we  do  not  feel  the  wrongs  we  suffer? 
The  hour  of  retribution  is  at  hand, 
And   tyrants   tremble, — mark   me,    King   of 

England. 


26  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

THE  SOLDIER'S  DREAM. 

THOMAS  CAMPBELL. 

Our  bugles  sang  truce,  for  the  night-cloud  had 
lowered, 
And  the  sentinel  stars  set  their  watch  in  the  sky ; 
And  thousands  had  sunk  on  the  ground  over- 
powered, 
The  weary  to  sleep,  and  the  wounded  to  die. 
When  reposing  that  night  on  my  pallet  of  straw, 
By  the  wolf-scaring  fagot  that  guarded  the 
slain. 
At  the  dead  of  night  a  sweet  vision  I  saw. 

And  thrice  ere  the  morning  I  dreamed  it  again. 

Methought,  from  the  battlefield's  dreadful  array. 

Far,  far  I  had  roamed  on  a  desolate  track ; 
^Twas  autumn, — and  sunshine  arose  on  the  way 
To  the  home  of  my  fathers,  that  welcomed  me 
back. 
I  flew  to  the  pleasant  fields,  traversed  so  oft 
In  life's  morning  march,  when  my  bosom  was 
young; 
I  heard  my  own  mountain-goats  bleating  aloft. 
And   knew  the   sweet   strain   that   the   corn- 
reapers  sung. 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  27 

Then  pledged  we  the  wine-cup,  and  fondly  I 
swore 
From  my  home  and  my  weeping  friends  never 
to  part; 
My  little  ones  kissed  me  a  thousand  times  o'er, 
And  my  wife  sobbed  aloud  in  her  fulness  of 
heart. 
"Stay,  stay  with  us, — rest,  thou  art  weary  and 
worn!" 
And  fain  was  their  war-broken  soldier  to  stay. 
But  sorrow  returned  with  the  dawning  of  morn. 
And  the  voice  in  my  dreaming  ear  melted  away. 


GENERAL    SCOTT    AND    THE 
VETERAN. 

BAYARD  TAYLOR. 

An  old  and  crippled  veteran  to  the  War  Depart- 
ment came. 

He  sought  the  Chief  who  led  him,  on  many  a  field 
of  fame: 

The  Chief  who  shouted,  ^'Forward !"  where'er  his 
banner  rose, 

And  bore  his  stars  in  triumph  behind  the  flying 
foes. 


28  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

"Have  you  forgotten,   General,"  the  battered 

soldier  cried, 
"The  days  of  eighteen  hundred  twelve,  when  I 

was  at  your  side? 
Have  you  forgotten  Johnson,  that  fought  at 

Lundy's  Lane? 
'Tis  true,  I'm  old,  and  pensioned,  but  I  want  to 

fight  again." 
"Have  I  forgotten?"  said  the  Chief,  "my  brave 

old  soldier,  No! 
And  here's  the  hand  I  gave  you  then,  and  let  it 

tell  you  so; 
But  you  have  done  your  share,  my  friend ;  you're 

crippled,  old,  and  gray. 
And  we  have  need  of  younger  arms  and  fresher 

blood  to-day." 

"But,  General!"  cried  the  veteran,  a  flush  upon 

his  brow, 
"The  very  men  who  fought  with  us,  they  say,  are 

traitors  now; 
They've  torn  the  flag  of  Lundy's  Lane,  our  old 

red,  white,  and  blue. 
And  while  a  drop  of  blood  is  left,  I'll  show  that 

drop  is  true. 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  29 

I'm  not  so  weak  but  I  can  strike,  and  IVe  a  good 

old  gun 
To  get  the  range  of  traitors'  hearts,  and  pick  them 

one  by  one. 
Your  Minie  rifles,  and  such  arms,  it  a'n't  worth 

while  to  try ; 
I  couldn't  get  the  hang  o'  them,  but  I'll  keep  my 

powder  dry!" 
"God  bless  you,  comrade!"  said  the  Chief — "God 

bless  your  loyal  heart ! 
But  younger  men  are  in  the  field,  and  claim  to 

have  their  part. 

They'll  plant  our  sacred  banner  in  each  rebellious 

town. 
And  woe,  henceforth,  to  any  hand  that  dares  to 

pull  it  down!" 
"But,  General," — still  persisting — the  weeping 

veteran  cried, 
"I  am  young  enough  to  follow,  so  long  as  you're 

my  guide. 
And  some,  you  know,  must  bite  the  dust,  and 

that,  at  least,  can  I ; 
So,  give  the  young  ones  place  to  fight,  but  me  a 

place  to  die ! 


30  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

If  they  should  fire  on  Pickens,  let  the  Colonel  in 

command 
Put  me  upon  the  rampart,  with  the  flag-staff  in 

my  hand; 
No  odds  how  hot  the  cannon  smoke,  or  how  the 

shells  may  fly, 
I'll  hold  the  Stars  and  Stripes  aloft,  and  hold 

them  till  I  die! 

I'm  ready.  General,  so  you  let  a  post  to  me  be 

given. 
Where  Washington  can  see  me,  as  he  looks  from 

highest  Heaven, 
And  says  to  Putnam,  at  his  side,  or,  may  be. 

General  Wayne, 
'There  stands  old  Billy  Johnson,  who  fought  at 

Lundy's  Lane!' 
And  when  the  fight  is  hottest,  before  the  traitors 

When  shell  and  ball  are  screeching,  and  bursting 

in  the  sky. 
If  any  shot  should  hit  me,  and  lay  me  on  my  face. 
My  soul  would  go  to  Washington's,  and  not  to 

Arnold's  place!" 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  31 

THE  COLOR-BEARER. 

HENRY  HOWARD  BROWNELL. 

Let  them  go ! — they  are  brave,  I  know — 

But  a  berth  Hke  this,  why  it  suits  me  best; 
I  can't  carry  back  the  Old  Colors  to-day. 
We've  come  together  a  long  rough  way — 
Here's  as  good  a  spot  as  any  to  rest. 

No  look,  I  reckon,  to  hold  them  long; 

So  here,  in  the  turf,  with  my  bayonet. 
To  dig  for  a  bit,  and  plant  them  strong — 

(Look  out  for  the  point^ — ^we  may  want  it  yet!) 

Dry  work!  but  the  old  canteen  holds  fast 
A  few  drops  of  water — not  over- fresh — 

So,  for  a  drink ! — it  may  be  the  last — 
My  respects  to  you,  Mr.  Secesh! 

No  great  show  for  the  snakes  to  sight : 

Oiu-  boys  keep  'em  busy  yet,  by  the  powers! — 

Hark,  what  a  row  going  on,  to  the  Right ! 
Better  luck  there,  I  hope,  than  ours. 

Half  an  hour! — (and  you'd  swear  't  was  three)  — 
Here  by  the  bully  old  staff,  I've  sat — 

Long  enough,  as  it  seems  to  me. 
To  lose  as  many  lives  as  a  cat. 


32  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

Now  and  then,  they  sputter  away ; 

A  puff  and  a  crack,  and  I  hear  the  ball. 
Mighty  poor  shooting,  I  should  say — 

Not  bad  fellows,  may  be,  after  all. 

My  chance,  of  course,  isn't  worth  a  dime — 

But  I  thought,  'twould  be  over,  sudden  and 
quick ; 

Well,  since  it  seems  that  we're  not  on  time. 
Here's  for  a  touch  of  the  Kilikinick. 

Cool  as  a  clock ! — and,  what  is  strange — 
Out  of  this  dream  of  death  and  alarm, 

(This  wild  hard  week  of  battle  and  change)  — 

Out  of  the  rifle's  deadly  range — 

My  thoughts  are  all  at  the  dear  old  farm. 


'Tis  green  as  a  sward,  by  this,  I  know — 
The  orchard  is  just  beginning  to  set, 

They  mowed  the  home-lot  a  week  ago — 
The  corn  must  be  late,  for  that  piece  is  wet. 

I  can  think  of  one  or  two,  that  would  wipe 
A  drop  or  so  from  a  soft  blue  eye, 

To  see  me  sit,  and  puff  at  my  pipe, 

With  a  hundred  death's  heads  grinning  hard  by- 


All  quiet   along  the  Potomac." — Page  35. 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  Si 

And  I  wonder,  when  this  has  all  passed  o  er, 
And  the  tattered  old  stars  in  triumph  wave  on 

Through  street  and  square,  with  welcoming  roar, 
If  ever  they'll  think  of  us  who  are  gone? 

How  we  marched  together,  sound  or  sick. 

Sank  in  the  trench  o'er  the  heavy  spade — 
How  we  charged  on  the  guns,  at  double-quick — 
Kept  rank  for  Death  to  choose  and  pick — 
And  lay  on  the  bed  no  fair  hands  made. 

Ah,  well!  at  last,  when  the  Nation's  free. 
And  flags  are  flapping  from  bluff*  to  bay, 

In  old  St.  Lou,  what  a  time  there'll  be! 

I  mayn't  be  there,  the  Hurrah  to  see — 
But  if  the  Old  Rag  goes  back  to-day. 
They  never  shall  say  'twas  carried  by  me! 


THE  PICKET-GUARD. 

MRS.  ETHEL  LYNN  BEERS. 

"All  quiet  along  the  Potomac,"  they  say, 
"Except  now  and  then  a  stray  picket 

Is  shot,  as  he  walks  on  his  beat,  to  and  fro, 
By  a  rifleman  hid  in  the  thicket. 


34  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

'T  is  nothing :  a  private  or  two,  now  and  then, 
Will  not  count  in  the  news  of  battle; 

Not  an  officer  lost, — only  one  of  the  men. 
Moaning  out,  all  alone,  the  death  rattle." 

All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night. 

Where  the  soldiers  lie  peacefully  dreaming; 
Their  tents  in  the  rays  of  the  clear  autumn  moon, 

Or  the  light  of  the  watch-fires,  are  gleaming. 
A  tremulous  sigh,  as  the  gentle  night-wind 

Through  the  forest  leaves  softly  is  creeping; 
While  stars  up  above,  with  their  glittering  eyes, 

Keep  guard, — for  the  army  is  sleeping. 

There's  only  the  sound  of  the  lone  sentry's  tread 

As  he  tramps  from  the  rock  to  the  fountain. 
And  he  thinks  of  the  two  in  the  low  trundle-bed. 

Far  away  in  the  cot  on  the  mountain. 
His  musket  falls  slack ;  his  face,  dark  and  grim. 

Grows  gentle  with  memories  tender. 
As  he  mutters  a  prayer  for  the  children  asleep, 

For  their  mother, — may  Heaven  defend  her! 

The  moon  seems  to  shine  just  as  brightly  as  then, 
That  night  when  the  love  yet  unspoken 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  35 

Leaped  up  to  his  lips, — ^when  low,  murmured 
vows 

Were  pledged  to  be  ever  unbroken ; 
Then  drawing  his  sleeve  roughly  over  his  eyes, 

He  dashes  off  tears  that  are  welling, 
And  gathers  his  gun  closer  up  to  its  place. 

As  if  to  keep  down  the  heart-swelling. 

He  passes  the  fountain,  the  blasted  pine-tree, — 

The  footstep  is  lagging  and  weary; 
Yet  onward  he  goes,  through  the  broad  belt  of 
light, 

Toward  the  shades  of  the  forest  so  dreary. 
Hark!  was  it  the  night- wind  that  rustled  the 
leaves? 

Was  it  moonlight  so  wondrously  flashing? 
It  looked  like  a  rifle:  "Ha!  Mary,  good  by!" 

And  the  life-blood  is  ebbing  and  plashing. 

All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night — 
No  sound  save  the  rush  of  the  river ; 

While  soft  falls  the  dew  on  the  face  of  the  dead — • 
The  picket's  off^  duty  forever. 


36  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

THE    CHARGE    OF    THE    LIGHT 
BRIGADE. 

ALFRED  TEISTNYSON. 

Half  a  league,  half  a  league. 

Half  a  league  onward, 
All  in  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 
* 'Forward  the  Light  Brigade! 
Charge  for  the  guns!"  he  said. 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

"Forward,  the  Light  Brigade!" 
Was  there  a  man  dismayed? 
Not  though  the  soldier  knew 

Some  one  had  blundered'; 
Theirs  not  to  make  reply. 
Theirs  not  to  reason  why. 
Theirs  but  to  do  and  die, 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them. 
Cannon  to  left  of  them. 
Cannon  in  front  of  them 
Volleyed  and  thundered ; 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  37 

Stormed  at  with  shot  and  shell. 
Boldly  they  rode  and  well, 
Into  the  jaws  of  Death, 
Into  the  mouth  of  Hell 
Rode  the  six  hundred. 

Flashed  all  their  sabres  bare. 
Flashed  as  they  turned  in  air. 
Sabring  the  gunners  there, 
Charging  an  army,  while 

All  the  world  wondered. 
Plunged  in  the  battery-smoke 
Right  through  the  line  they  broke; 
Cossack  and  Russian 
Reeled  from  the  sabre-stroke 

Shattered  and  sundered. 
Then  they  rode  back,  but  not, 

Not  the  six  hundred. 


Cannon  to  rignt  of  them. 
Cannon  to  left  of  them. 
Cannon  behind  them 

Volleyed  and  thundered; 
Stormed  at  with  shot  and  shell. 
While  horse  and  hero  fell, 
They  that  had  fought  so  well 


38  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

Came  through  the  jaws  of  Death 
Back  from  the  mouth  of  Hell, 
All  that  was  left  of  them, 
Left  of  six  hundred. 

When  can  their  glory  fade? 
O  the  wild  charge  they  made  I 

All  the  world  wondered. 
Honor  the  charge  they  made! 
Honor  the  Light  Brigade, 

Noble  six  hundred! 


THE  DEATH  RIDE. 

A  Poem  by  an  American  Youth  That  Preceded  Tennyson's  "Charge 
of  the  Light  Brigade." 

— From  the  New  York  Times  Saturday  Review  of  Books, 

On  o'er  the  rocky  ground. 
Cannon  on  all  sides  round 
Belcliing  forth  death  and  wound. 
Madly  they  rode! 

On !  like  a  Demon-blast, 
Thundering  and  fierce  and  fast, 
Fear  to  the  winds  they  cast. 
Needing  no  goad! 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  J9 

On!  through  the  rocky  dell! 
On!  through  the  cannon's  hell! 
On !  though  by  heaps  they  fell, 
Dying  and  dead! 

On  with  a  whirlwind's  leap ! 
Down  on  the  Russ  they  sweep ! 
Madly  their  swords  they  steep 
Where  the  foe  bled ! 

On  without  stop  or  stay, 
Cleaving  their  bloody  way 
Through  that  immense  array, 
Through  to  the  rear! 

**Well  done,  my  gallant  men! 
Halt  and  return  again — 
On!  and  charge  boldly  then, 
Who  feels  a  fear?" 

Back!  through  the  serried  rank 
Closing  around  their  flank — 
Deeply  their  red  blades  drank 
Blood  shed  anew ! 

Back!  through  that  iron  hail! 
Back!  through  that  hollow  vale! 


40  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

Back !  through  that  deadly  dale ! 
Scattered  and  few! 


Long  shall  the  memory  last 
Of  that  fierce  ride  and  fast, 
When  through  the  carnage  past 
England's  brave  sons. 

Centuries  hence  shall  tell 
How,  in  that  fatal  dell. 
Riding  to  death  they  fell. 
Heroic  ones! 


THE  BAYONET  CHARGE. 

NATHAN  D.  URNER. 

Not  a  sound,  not  a  breath ! 

And  as  still  as  death. 
As  we  stand  on  the  steep  in  our  bayonet's  shine : 

All  is  tumult  below — 

Surging  friend,  surging  foe ; 
But,  not  a  hair's  breadth  moves  our  adamant  Une : 

Waiting  so  grimly. 


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THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  41 

The  battle  smoke  lifts 

From  the  valley,  and  drifts 
Romid  the  hill  where  we  stand,  like  a  pall  for  the 
world; 

And  a  gleam  now  and  then 

Shows  the  billows  of  men, 
In  whose  black,  boiling  surge  we  are  soon  to  be 
hm'led. 

Redly  and  dimly. 

There's  the  word!    "Ready  all!" 

See  the  serried  points  fall — 
The  grim  horizontal  so  bright  and  so  bare ! 

Then  the  other  word — Ha ! 

We  are  moving!  Huzza! 
We  snufF  the  burnt  powder,  we  plunge  in  the 
glare, 

Rushing  to  glory! 

Down  the  hill,  up  the  glen. 

O'er  the  bodies  of  men. 
Then  on  with  a  cheer  to  the  roaring  redoubt! 

Why  stumble  so,  Ned? 

No  answer:  he's  dead! 
And  there's  Dutch  Peter  down,  with  his  life  leap- 
ing out. 

Crimson  and  gory ! 


42  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

Onion!    Do  not  think 

Of  the  falling ;  but  drink 
Of  the  mad,  living  cataract  torrent  of  war ! 

On !  on !  let  them  feel 

The  cold  vengeance  of  steel! 
Catch  the  Captain — ^he's  hit!     'Tis  a  scratch — 
nothing  more! 

Forward  forever ! 

Huzza !    Here's  a  trench ! 

In  and  out  of  it !    Wrench 
From  the  jaws  of  the  cannon  the  guerdon  of 
Fame! 

Charge!  charge!  with  a  yell 

Like  the  shriek  of  a  shell — 
O'er  the  abatis,  on  through  the  curtain  of  flame ! 

Back  again!  Never! 

The  rampart!    'Tis  crossed — 

It  is  ours !    It  is  lost ! 
No — another  dash  now  and  the  glacis  is  won! 

Huzza !    What  a  dust ! 

Hew  them  down.     Cut  and  thrust! 
A  T-i-g-a-r !  brave  lads,  for  the  red  work  is  done — 

Victory!    Victory! 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  43 

THE  BON  HOMME  RICHARD. 

WILLIAM  HURD  HILLYER. 
[Dedicated  to  Atlanta  Chapter,  D.  A.  R,] 

'Twas  on  a  blue  September  day 

Just  thrilled  by  waking  dreams  of  frost, 
When  our  five  vessels  made  their  way 

Northward  along  the  Scottish  coast; 
The  Bon  Homme  Richard  staunch  and  true — 

Deep-scarred  in  desperate  battle  scenes — 
The  Alliance  with  her  craven  crew ; 

Three  frigates,  manned  with  French  marines 

We  saw  them  whiten  through  the  mist, 

The  tempting,  blossoming  British  sails, 
Fair  men-of-war  pledged  to  resist 

All  spoilers  of  the  merchant's  bales. 
And  closely  huddled  near  them  moved 

The  fenceless  freight-ships,  laden  all 
With  wealth  that  ere  the  day's  end  proved 

But  trophies  for  the  Brine-King's  hall. 

** About  ship!"  came  the  order  clear; 

The  blocks  went  clattering  up  the  mast. 
We  knew  that  there  was  battle  near, — 

A  glorious  day,  perchance  our  last. 


44  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

Loud  spake  our  flag-ship's  challenge  gun: 
Dull  boomed  the  answer  of  the  foe : 

We  saw  the  tiny  figures  run 

About  their  high  decks,  to  and  fro. 

We  bore  down  on  them  then;  and  they, 

Two  full-rigged  warriors  of  the  line, 
Swung  out  majestic  for  the  fray. 

The  salt  air  warmed  our  throats  Hke  wine; 
We  thirsted  for  the  danger  draught 

Yet  trembled  when  it  reached  our  lips. 
Our  drumming  pulses  as  we  quaffed 

Throbbed  even  to  our  finger-tips. 

Our  forward  guns  wrought  merrier  flame 

As  near  and  nearer  drew  their  mark. 
Foremost  the  dread  Serapis  came 

Her  broad  hull  standing  huge  and  dark. 
Leeward,  with  muttered  threatenings  dire, 

Her  sister-ship,  the  Countess,  made. 
Both  showed  fierce  waist-lines  fringed  with  fire 

Of  their  continuous  cannonade. 

"Our  broadside  batteries  are  no  more!" 
It  was  the  bold  Mayrant  who  spake. 

"What  of  it?    They've  but  forty-four, 
And  we  have  thirty-one,  to  wake 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  45 

His  starboard,  port  and  forward  eyes : 
We  have  our  sweet  twelve-pounders  still!" 

Dauntless  our  commodore  replies, 
"And  we  can  conquer,  if  we  will!" 

Now  scarce  a  ship's  length  lies  between 

The  Bon  Homme  Richard  and  the  foe, 
Down  in  that  narrowing  gulf  of  green 

The  splintered  currents  whirl  and  flow. 
"Steady !    We'll  heave  his  mainmast  yet !" 

Our  long-nine  chorus  thunders  high; 
The  timbers  moan,  the  decks  are  wet 

With  blood  of  men  who  dared  to  die 

Our  gunners  paused  with  pallid  lips 

And  gazed  at  that  menacing  prow: 
A  silence  settled  on  both  ships. 

"Ah,  God  in  Heaven!  they  have  us  now!" 
We  passed  from  man  to  man  the  word. 

As  Death  upon  our  broadside  bore. 
"Fire,  lads!  the  day  is  won!"  we  heard 

The  voice  of  our  own  commodore. 

His  wheel  went  over  with  such  ease 
As  on  some  feathery  pleasure  craft 

Skilled  yachtsman  taunts  the  harmless  breeze. 
"Not  yet,  my  British  lads!"  he  laughed. 


46  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

With  canvas  full,  the  Richard  swung 
Alongside,  ere  the  foe  could  turn: 

Our  men  with  grappling  irons  hung 
Ready  to  seize  and  board,  or  burn. 

The  Britisher  sheers  oif ,  and  stands 

Filling  and  yawing  in  dismay, 
Moved  swiftly  as  by  hidden  hands 

The  Richard  makes  one  masterplay ; 
For,  as  the  foe  cracks  on  and  crowds 

All  sail  with  new  redoubled  rage, 
Lo!  silently  our  mizzen  shrouds 

His  forward  anchor  fast  engage. 

One  daring  Britisher  now  tries 

To  cut  the  fatal  link ;  in  vain — 
Hatchet  in  hand  he  falls,  and  dies; 

And  after  him  twice  seven  are  slain; 
While, — in  one  wreck-betangled  space 

The  two  ships  aimlessly  revolve. 
Hard  locked  in  that  last  firm  embrace 

That  Death — Death  only — must  dissolve. 

Slowly  the  Richard  sinks ;  his  side 

Yawning  with  many  a  mortal  wound. 

Where — through  the  hateful,  greenish  tide 
Comes  pouring  in  with  hollow  sound. 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  47 

But  see!  the  Alliance  joins  the  fray; — 
Our  men  respond  with  lusty  cheer, — 

Her  coward  captain  turns  away, 
And  out  of  gunshot  hugs  his  fear. 

"Fight  on,  my  lads !    Down  with  that  mast ! 

Well  done!    You  have  the  flames  in  hand? 
Gkx)d!  if  the  sea  comes  in  too  fast — " 

(This  was  the  commodore's  command) 
"Look  that  you  save  it  for  the  fire." 

He  glances  up;  where,  undismayed. 
Midshipman  Fanning  high  and  higher 

Carries  one  flickering  hand-grenade : 

And  as  he  flings — "God  speed  it!"  cries. 

Beneath  his  breath,  our  commodore. 
It  curves — it  strikes  the  mark,  and  lies 

Quick-stuttering  for  its  final  roar. 
The  deck  heaved  skyward ;  and  our  men 

Swarmed  to  the  British  craft;  but  lo! 
Scarce  had  we  raised  our  colors,  when 

We  watched  the  sinking  Richard  go, 

Anchor  and  all,  with  headlong  dip 

And  horrid  whirl,  round  which  we  spun 

Till  Pallas,  our  brave  sister-ship. 

Announced  the  prize  she,  too,  had  won. 


48  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

But  'round  that  whirlpool,  dark  and  dread, 
Like  thoughts  that  rise  in  troubled  sleep, 

The  spirits  of  the  heroes  dead 

Came  bubbling  through  the  solemn  deep. 

Oh,  he  must  be  bold,  and  he  must  be  brave 

Who  dared  with  the  Richard  wind  and  wave ; 
'Twas  a  fig  for  your  flesh,  and  a  snap  for  your 
bones. 
With  the  crew  that  sailed  under  John  Paul 
Jones ! 


CLEAR    THE   WAY. 

CHARLES    MACKAY. 

Men  of  thought!  be  up,  and  stirring 
Night  and  day : 

Sow  the  seed — withdraw  the  curtain- 
Clear  the  way! 

Men  of  action,  aid  and  cheer  them. 
As  ye  may ! 

There's  a  fount  about  to  stream. 

There's  a  light  about  to  beam. 


John   Paul   Jones  on  the  deck  of  tiie    lion   Ilonnne 
Richard.— Page   43. 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  49 

There's  a  warmth  about  to  glow. 
There's  a  flower  about  to  blow; 
There's  a  midnight  blackness  changing 

Into  gray; 
Men  of  thought  and  men  of  action, 

Clear  the  way! 


Once  the  welcome  light  has  broken, 

Who  shall  say 
What  the  unimagined  glories 

Of  the  day? 
.What  the  evil  that  shall  perish 

In  its  ray? 
Aid  the  dawning,  tongue  and  pen; 
Aid  it,  hopes  of  honest  men; 
Aid  it,  paper — aid  it,  type — 
Aid  it,  for  the  hour  is  ripe. 
And  our  earnest  must  not  slacken 

Into  play; 
Men  of  thought  and  men  of  action, 

Clear  the  way! 

Lo!  a  cloud's  about  to  vanish 

From  the  day ; 
And  a  brazen  wrong  to  crumble 

Into  clay. 


50  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

Lo!  the  right's  about  to  conquer; 

Clear  the  way ! 
With  the  Right  shall  many  more 
Enter  smiling  at  the  door; 
With  the  giant  Wrong  shall  fall 
Many  others,  great  and  small, 
That  for  ages  long  have  held  us 

For  their  prey. 
Men  of  thought  and  men  of  action, 

Clear  the  way ! 


THE  SOLDIER  FROM  BINGEN. 

MRS.  NORTON. 

A  soldier  of  the  Legion  lay  dying  in  Algiers, 

There  was  lack  of  woman's  nursing,  there  was 
dearth  of  woman's  tears 

But  a  comrade  stood  beside  him,  while  the  life- 
blood  ebbed  away. 

And  bent  with  pitying  glance  to  hear  each  word 
he  had  to  say. 

The  dying  soldier  faltered,  as  he  took  that  com- 
rade's hand. 

And  he  said:  "I  never  more  shall  see  my  own — 
my  native  land! 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  51 

Take  a  message  and  a  token  to  the  distant  friends 

of  mine, 
For  I  was  born  at  Bingen — at  Bingen  on  the 

Rhine ! 


''Tell  my  brothers  and  companions,  when  they 

meet  and  crowd  around 
To  hear  my  mournful  story,  in  the  pleasant  vine- 
yard ground. 
That  we  fought  the  battle  bravely,  and  when  the 

day  was  done, 
Full  many  a  corse  lay  ghastly  pale,  beneath  the 

setting  sun; 
And  midst  the  dead  and  dying  were  some  grown 

old  in  wars. 
The  death-wound  on  their  gallant  breasts, — ^the 

last  of  many  scars ! 
But  some  were  young,  and  suddenly  beheld  Life's 

morn  decline, — 
And  one  had  come  from  Bingen — fair  Bingen 

on  the  Rhine. 
"Tell  my  mother  that  her  other  sons  shall  comfort 

her  old  age. 
For  I  was  still  a  truant  bird,  that  thought  his 

home  a  cage ; 


52  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

For  my  father  was  a  soldier,  and,  even  when  a 

child. 
My   heart   leaped   forth   to   hear   him   tell   of 

struggles  fierce  and  wild ; 
And  when  he  died,  and  left  us  to  divide  his  scanty 

hoard, 
I  let  them  take  whate'er  they  would,  but  kept  my 

father's  sword! 
And  with  boyish  love  I  hung  it  where  the  bright 

light  used  to  shine, 
On  the  cottage  wall  at  Bingen — calm  Bingen  on 

the  Rhine ! 


"Tell  my  sisters  not  to  weep  for  me,  and  sob 

with  drooping  head. 
When  the  troops  come  marching  home  again, 

with  glad  and  gallant  tread ; 
But  to  look  upon  them  proudly,  with  a  calm  and 

steadfast  eye. 
For  their  brother  was  a  soldier,  too,  and  not 

afraid  to  die! 
And  if  a  comrade  seek  her  love,  I  ask  her  in  my 

name 
To   listen  to  him   kindly,    without   regret   and 

shame; 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  53 

And  to  hang  the  old  sword  in  its  place — (my 

father's  sword  and  mine), 
For  the  honor  of  old  Bingen — dear  Bingen  on 

the  Rhine! 

"There's  another, — not  a  sister, — in  happy  days 

gone  by. 
You'd  have  known  her  by  the  merriment  that 

sparkled  in  her  eye; 
Too  innocent  for  coquetry,  too   fond  for  idle 

scorning, — 
O!  friend,  I  fear  the  lightest  heart  makes  some- 
times heaviest  mourning! 
Tell  her  the  last  night  of  my  life — (for,  ere  the 

moon  be  risen, 
My  body  will  be  out  of  pain,  my  soul  be  out  of 

prison), — 
I  dreamed  I  stood  with  her,  and  saw  the  yellow 

sunlight  shine 
On  the  vine-clad  hills  of  Bingen — fair  Bingen 

on  the  Rhine! 

"I  saw  the  blue  Rhine  sweep  along, — I  heard,  or 

seemed  to  hear. 
The  German  songs  we  used  to  sing,  in  chorus 

sweet  and  clear; 
And  down  the  pleasant  river,  and  up  the  slanting 

hill, 


I 
54  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

The  echoing  chorus  sounded,  through  the  evening 

calm  and  still ; 
And  her  glad  blue  eyes  were  on  me,  as  we  passed, 

with  friendly  talk 
Down  many  a  path  beloved  of  yore,  and  well 

remembered  walk; 
And  her  little  hand  lay  lightly,  confidingly,  in 

mine, — 
But  we'll  meet  no  more  at  Bingen — cloved  Bingen 

on  the  Rhine!" 

His  trembling  voice  grew  faint  and  hoarse,  his 

gasp  was  childish  weak. 
His  eyes  put  on  a  dying  look, — he  sighed,  and 

ceased  to  speak; 
His  conGirade  bent  to  lift  him,  but  the  spark  of 

life  had  fled — 
The  soldier  of  the  Legion  in  a  foreign  land  was 

dead! 
And  the  soft  moon  rose  up  slowly,  and  calmly  she 

looked  down 
On  the  red  sand  of  the  battle-field,  with  bloody 

corses  strewn! 
Yes,  calmly  on  that  dreadful  scene  her  pale  light 

seemed  to  shine. 
As  it  shone  on  distant  Bingen — fair  Bingen  on 

the  Rhine. 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  55 

SHERIDAN'S  RIDE. 

THOMAS  BUCHANA'N  READ. 

Up  from  the  south  at  break  of  day, 
Bringing  to  Winchester  fresh  dismay, 
The  affrighted  air  with  a  shudder  bore. 
Like  a  herald  in  haste,  to  the  chieftain's  door. 
The  terrible  grumble  and  rumble  and  roar 
Telling  the  battle  was  on  once  more, 
And  Sheridan  twenty  miles  away. 

And  wider  still  those  billows  of  war, 

Thundered  along  the  horizon's  bar; 

And  louder  yet  into  Winchester  rolled 

The  roar  of  that  red  sea  uncontrolled, 

Making  the  blood  of  the  listener  cold 

As  he  thought  of  the  stake  in  that  fiery  fray, 

With  Sheridan  twenty  miles  away. 

But  there  is  a  road  from  Winchester  town, 

A  good,  broad  highway,  leading  down ; 

And  there,  through  the  flush  of  the  morning  light, 

A  steed  as  black  as  the  steeds  of  night, 

Was  seen  to  pass  as  with  eagle  flight. 

As  if  he  knew  the  terrible  need, 

He  stretched  away  with  the  utmost  speed; 


56  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

Hills  rose  and  fell, — ^but  his  heart  was  gay, 
With  Sheridan  fifteen  miles  away. 

Still  sprung  from  those  swift  hoofs,  thundering 

South, 
The  dust,  like  smoke  from  the  cannon's  mouth ; 
Or  the  trail  of  a  comet,  sweeping  faster  and 

faster. 
Foreboding  to  traitors  the  doom  of  disaster. 
The  heart  of  the  steed,  and  the  heart  of  the  master, 
Were   beating,   like   prisoners    assaulting   their 

walls. 
Impatient  to  be  where  the  battle-field  calls : 
Every  nerve  of  the  charger  was  strained  to  full 

play, 
With  Sheridan  only  ten  miles  away. 

Under  his  spurning  feet,  the  road 

Like  an  arrowy  Alpine  river  flowed, 

And  the  landscape  sped  away  behind, 

Like  an  ocean  flying  before  the  wind: 

And  the  steed,  like  a  bark  fed  with  furnace  ire. 

Swept  on,  with  his  wild  eyes  full  of  fire; 

But  lo !  he  is  nearing  his  heart's  desire. 

He  is  snuffing  the  smoke  of  the  roaring  fray, 

With  Sheridan  only  five  miles  away. 


Every  nerve  of  the  cliarger  was  strained  to  full  play, 
With  Sheridan  only  ten  miles  away. — Page  56. 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  57 

The  first  that  the  General  saw  were  the  groups 
Of  stragglers,  and  then  the  retreating  troops ; 
What  was  done, — ^what  to  do, — a  glance  told  him 

both. 
And,  striking  his  spurs  with  a  terrible  oath. 
He  dashed  down  the  line  'mid  a  storm  of  huzzas. 
And  the  wave  of  retreat  checked  its  course  there, 

because 
The  sight  of  the  master  compelled  it  to  pause. 
With  foam  and  with  dust  the  black  charger  was 

gray; 
By  the  flash  of  his  eye,  and  his  nostril's  play. 
He  seemed  to  the  whole  great  army  to  say, 
**I  have  brought  you  Sheridan  all  the  way 
From  Winchester  down,  to  save  the  day!" 

Hurrah,  hurrah  for  Sheridan ! 

Hurrah,  hurrah  for  horse  and  man ! 

And  when  their  statues  are  placed  on  high, 

Under  the  dome  of  the  Union  sky, — 

The  American's  soldier's  Temple  of  Fame, — 

There  with  the  glorious  General's  name 

Be  it  said  in  letters  both  bold  and  bright: 

"Here  is  the  steed  that  saved  the  day 

By  carrying  Sheridan  into  the  fight, 

From  Winchester, — twenty  miles  away. 


58  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

BURIAL    OF    THE   MINNISINK. 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

On  sunny  slope  and  beechen  swell 
The  shadowed  light  of  evening  fell ; 
And,  where  the  maple's  leaf  was  brown. 
With  soft  and  silent  lapse  came  down 
The  glory  that  the  wood  receives. 
As  sunset,  in  its  brazen  leaves. 

Far  upward  in  the  mellow  light 

Rose  the  blue  hills.    One  cloud  of  white. 

Around  a  far-uplifted  cone. 

In  the  warm  blush  of  evening  shone; 

An  image  of  the  silver  lakes 

By  which  the  Indian's  soul  awakes. 

But  soon  a  funeral  hymn  was  heard 
Where  the  soft  breath  of  evening  stirred 
The  tall,  gray  forest ;  and  a  band 
Of  stern  in  heart,  and  strong  in  hand, 
Came  winding  down  beside  the  wave, 
To  lay  the  red  chief  in  his  grave. 

They  sang,  that  by  his  native  bowers 
He  stood,  in  the  last  moon  of  flowers, 
And  thirty  snows  had  not  yet  shed 
Their  glory  on  the  warrior's  head; 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  59 

But,  as  the  summer  fruit  decays. 
So  died  he  in  those  naked  days. 

A  dark  cloak  of  the  roebuck's  skin 
Covered  the  warrior,  and  within 
Its  heavy  folds  the  weapons,  made 
For  the  hard  toils  of  war,  were  laid ; 
The  cuirass,  woven  of  plaited  reeds. 
And  the  broad  belt  of  shells  and  beads. 

Before,  a  dark-haired  virgin  train 
Chanted  the  death-dirge  of  the  slain ; 
Behind,  the  long  procession  came 
Of  hoary  men  and  chiefs  of  fame. 
With  heavy  hearts,  and  eyes  of  grief. 
Leading  the  war-horse  of  their  chief. 

Stripped  of  his  proud  and  martial  dress, 
Uncurbed,  imreined,  and  riderless. 
With  darting  eye,  and  nostril  spread, 
And  heavy  and  impatient  tread. 
He  came;  and  oft  that  eye  so  proud 
Asked  for  his  rider  in  the  crowd. 

They  buried  the  dark  chief;  they  freed 
Beside  the  grave  his  battle  steed ; 
And  swift  an  arrow  cleaved  its  way 
To  his  stern  heart!    One  piercing  neigh 
Arose, — and,  on  the  dead  man's  plain. 
The  rider  grasps  his  steed  again. 


60  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

ONLY  A  STABLE  BOY. 

GEORGE  CROUCH. 

I'm  only  a  stable  boy,  Sir.     Never  knew  nothin' 

but  horse. 
I  but  rub  'em  and  grub  'em  and  bed  'em,  and  have 

nothin'  to  do  on  the  course. 
But  say,  there  are  horses  and  horses;  they  differ 

like  human  kind, 
And  you  know,  without  any  one  telling, 
When  the  right  kind  of  critter  you  find. 

My  horse  knew  his  owner  and  trainer,  he'd  give 

them  his  whinny  and  nose 
When  they  patted  and  stroked  him.     They  loved 

him.     He  knew  it.     That  goes. 
But  when  they  had  trained  him  and  timed  him, 

they  brought  him  back  to  me. 
And  I  rubbed  him  and  grubbed  him  and  bed  him, 

and  slept  in  his  stall.     Don't  yer  see? 

He  knew  little  of  Jock,  with  his  jacket,  who  sud- 
denly jumped  on  his  back, 

Let  him  loose  at  the  post  and  with  whip  and  spur 
had  a  two-minute  spin  on  the  track. 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  61 

When  the  race  was  off,  and  the  mount  was  off,  it 

was  back  to  the  stable  yard. 
And  he  left  his  swell  friends  in  the  paddock;  he 

was  glad  to  see  me,  his  old  pard. 

And  he'd  tell  me  just  what  he  wanted, 

What,  can  horses  talk? 
Of  course.     You  might  just  as  well  ask  me  can 

horses  run  or  walk. 
They  can  talk  wth  their  hoofs  when  they  want  to, 

talk  with  their  eyes  when  they're  kind. 
And,  I  hope  you  won't  think  I  am  joking,  tiiey 

can  talk  with  their  ears  when  they're  blind. 
Well,  owner  and  trainer  and  jockey,  maybe  he 

liked  them  all. 
Think  he  did.     But  they  were  not  in  it  with  the 

boy  who  slept  in  the  stall. 

My  horse  was  the  gamest  and  bravest  the  turf  has 

ever  seen. 
And  whatever  was  good  in  man  or  horse,  he  was 

something  in  between. 
No  wonder,  then,  that  full-grown  men,  like  owner 

and  trainer,  and  I, 
Turned  wet  eyes  to  the  wall  as  we  stood  in  the 

stall,  and  saw  the  great  Sysonby  die. 


62  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

PAUL  REVERES  RIDE. 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Listen,  my  children,  and  you  shall  hear 

Of  the  midnight  ride  of  Paul  Revere, 

On  the  eighteenth  of  April,  in  Seventy-five; 

Hardly  a  man  is  now  alive 

Who  remembers  that  famous  day  and  year. 

He  said  to  his  friend,  ''If  the  British  march 
By  land  or  sea  from  the  town  to-night, 
Hang  a  lantern  aloft  in  the  belfry  arch 
Of  the  North  Church  tower  as  a  signal  light, — 
One,  if  by  land,  and  two,  if  by  sea ; 
And  I  on  the  opposite  shore  will  be. 
Ready  to  ride  and  spread  the  alarm 
Through  every  Middlesex  village  and  farm. 
For  the  country  folk  to  be  up  and  to  arm." 

Then  he  said,  "Good-night,"  and  with  muffled 

oar 
Silently  row'd  to  the  Charlestown  shore. 
Just  as  the  moon  rose  over  the  bay, 
Where  swinging  wide  at  her  moorings  lay 
The  muster  of  men  at  the  barrack-door, 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  63 

A  phantom  ship,  with  each  mast  and  spar 
Across  the  moon  like  a  prison  bar. 
And  a  huge  black  hulk,  that  was  magnified 
By  its  own  reflection  in  the  tide. 

Meanwhile  his  friend,  through  alley  and  street. 
Wanders  and  watches  with  eager  ears. 
Till  in  the  silence  around  him  he  hears 
The  muster  of  men  at  the  barrack-door, 
The  sound  of  arms,  and  the  tramp  of  feet, 
And  the  measured  tread  of  the  grenadiers 
Marching  down  to  their  boats  on  the  shore. 

Then  he  climb'd  the  tower  of  the  Old  North 

Church, 
By  the  wooden  stairs,  with  stealthy  tread. 
To  the  highest  window  in  the  w  all. 
And  startled  the  pigeons  from  their  perch 
On  the  sombre  rafters,  that  round  him  made 
Masses  and  moving  shapes  of  shade, — 
By  the  trembling  ladder,  steep  and  tall. 
To  the  highest  window  in  the  wall. 
Where  he  paused  to  listen  and  look  down 
A  moment  on  the  roofs  of  the  town. 
And  the  moonlight  flowing  over  all. 


64  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

Beneath,  in  the  churchyard,  lay  the  dead, 

In  their  night  encampment  on  the  hill, 

Wrapp'd  in  silence  so  deep  and  still 

That  he  could  hear,  like  a  sentinel's  tread. 

The  watchful  night-wind,  as  it  went 

Creeping  along  from  tent  to  tent, 

And  seeming  to  whisper,  ''All  is  well!" 

A  moment  only  he  feels  the  spell 

Of  the  place  and  the  hour,  and  the  secret  dread 

Of  the  lonely  belfry  and  the  dead; 

For  suddenly  all  his  thoughts  are  bent 

On  a  shadowy  something  far  away. 

Where  the  river  widens  to  meet  the  bay, — 

A  line  of  black  that  bends  and  floats 

On  the  rising  tide  like  a  bridge  of  boats. 

Meanwhile,  impatient  to  mount  and  ride. 
Booted  and  spurr'd,  with  a  heavy  stride 
On  the  opposite  shore  walk'd  Paul  Revere. 
Now  he  patted  his  horse's  side, 
Now  gazed  at  the  landscape  for  and  near. 
Then,  impetuous,  stamp'd  the  earth, 
And  turn'd  and  tighten'd  his  saddle-girth; 
But  mostly  he  watch'd  with  eager  search 
The  belfry-tower  of  the  Old  North  Church, 
As  it  rose  above  the  graves  on  the  hill. 
Lonely  and  spectral  and  sombre  and  still. 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  65 

_And  lo!  as  he  looks,  on  the  belfry's  height 
A  glimmer,  and  then  a  gleam  of  light! 
He  springs  to  the  saddle,  the  bridle  he  turns. 
But  lingers  and  gazes,  till  full  on  his  sight 
A  second  lamp  in  the  belfry  burns. 

A  hurry  of  hoofs  in  a  village  street, 
A  shape  in  the  moonlight,  a  bulk  in  the  dark. 
And  beneath,  from  the  pebbles,  in  passing,  a  spark 
Struck  out  by  a  steed  flying  fearless  and  fleet : 
That  was  all ;  and  yet  through  the  gloom  and  the 

light. 
The  fate  of  a  nation  was  riding  that  night ; 
And  the  spark  struck  out  by  that   steed  in  his 

flight 
Kindled  the  land  into  flame  with  its  heat. 

He  has  left  the  village  and  mounted  the  steep. 
And  beneath  him,  tranquil  and  broad  and  deep. 
Is  the  Mystic,  meeting  the  ocean  tides. 
And  under  the  alders  that  skirt  its  edge, 
i^ow  soft  on  the  sand,  now  loud  on  the  ledge. 
Is  heard  the  tramp  of  his  steed  as  he  rides. 

It  was  twelve  by  the  village  clock 

When  he  cross'd  the  bridge  into  Medford  town. 

He  heard  the  crowing  of  the  cock. 


65  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

And  the  barking  of  the  farmer's  dog. 
And  felt  the  damp  of  the  river  fog 
That  rises  after  the  sun  goes  down. 

It  was  one  by  the  village  clock 

When  he  galloped  into  Lexington. 

He  saw  the  gilded  weathercock 

Swim  in  the  moonlight  as  he  pass'd, 

And  the  meeting-house  windows  blank  and  bare, 

Gaze  at  him  with  a  spectral  glare, 

As  if  they  already  stood  aghast 

At  the  bloody  work  they  would  look  upon. 

It  was  two  by  thfe  village  clock 

When  he  came  to  the  bridge  in  Concord  town. 

He  heard  the  bleating  of  the  flock, 

And  the  twitter  of  birds  among  the  trees, 

And  felt  the  breath  of  the  morning  breeze 

Blowing  over  the  meadows  brown. 

And  one  was  safe  and  asleep  in  his  bed 

Who  at  the  bridge  would  be  first  to  fall, 

Who  that  day  would  be  lying  dead, 

Pierced  by  a  British  musket-ball. 

You  know  the  rest;  in  the  books  you  have  read. 
How  the  British  regulars  fired  and  fled, — 
How  the  farmers  gave  them  ball  for  ball. 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  67 

From  behind  each  fence  and  farmyard  wall, 
Chasing  the  red-coats  down  the  lane, 
Then  crossing  the  fields  to  emerge  again 
Under  the  trees  at  the  turn  of  the  road, 
And  only  pausing  to  fire  and  load. 

So  through  the  night  rode  Paul  Revere, 

And  so  through  the  night  went  his  cry  of  alarm 

To  every  Middlesex  village  and  farm — 

A  cry  of  defiance,  and  not  of  fear, 

A  voice  in  the  darkness,  a  knock  at  the  door. 

And  a  word  that  shall  echo  for  evermore! 

For,  borne  on  the  night-wind  of  the  Past, 

Through  all  our  history,  to  the  last. 

In  the  hour  of  darkness,  and  peril,  and  need. 

The  people  will  waken  and  listen  to  hear 

The  hurrying  hoof -beats  of  that  steed. 

And  the  midnight  message  of  Paul  Revere. 


HOW  THEY  BROUGHT  THE  GOOD 
NEWS  FROM  GHENT  TO  AIX. 

ROBERT  BROWNING. 

I  sprang  to  the  stirrup,  and  Joris,  and  he; 

I  galloped,  Dirck  galloped,  we  galloped  all  three; 


68  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

*'Good  speed!"  cried  the  watch,  as  the  gate-bolts 

undrew; 
"Speed !"  echoed  the  wall  to  us  galloping  through; 
Behind  shut  the  postern,  the  lights  sank  to  rest. 
And  into  the  midnight  we  galloped  abreast. 

Not  a  word  to  each  other;  we  kept  the  great  pace 
Neck  by  neck,  stride  for  stride,  never  changing 

our  place. 
I  turned  in  my  saddle  and  made  its  girths  tight. 
Then  shortened  each  stirrup,  and  set  the  pique 

right, 
Rebuckled  the  check-strap,  chained  slacker  the 

bit,— 
Nor  galloped  less  steadily  Roland,  a  whit. 

'Twas  moonset  at  starting;  but  while  we  drew 

near 
Lokeren,  the  cocks  crew  and  twilight  dawned 

clear; 
At  Boom,  a  great  yellow  star  came  out  to  see ; 
At  Diiffeld,  'twas  morning  as  plain  as  could  be; 
And  from  Mechlin  church-steeple  we  heard  the 

half-chime 
So  Joris  broke  silence  with,  "Yet  there  is  timet" 

At  Aerschot,  up  leaped  of  a  sudden  the  sun. 
And  against  him  the  cattle  stood  black  every  one, 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  69 

To  stare  through  the  mist  at  us  galloping  past, 
And  I  saw  my  stout  galloper  Roland,  at  last. 
With  resolute  shoulders,  each  butting  away 
The  haze,  as  some  bluff  river  headland  its  spray. 

And  his  low  head  and  crest,  just  one  sharp  ear 

bent  back 
For  my  voice,  and  the  other  pricked  out  on  his 

track ; 
And    one    eye's    black    intelligence, — ever   that 

glance 
O'er  its  white  edge  at  me,  his  own  master,  askance. 
And  the  thick  heavy  spume-flakes  which  aye  and 

anon 
His  fierce  lips  shook  upwards  in  galloping  on. 

By  Hasselt,  Dirck  groaned;  and  cried  Joris, 
'*  Stay  spur 

Your  Roos  galloped  bravely,  the  fault's  not  in 
her, 

We'll  remember  at  Aix"* — for  one  heard  the 
quick  wheeze 

Of  her  chest,  saw  the  stretched  neck  and  stagger- 
ing knees, 

And  sunk  tail,  and  horrible  heave  of  the  flank, 

As  down  on  her  haunches  she  shuddered  and  sank. 


*  The  X  in  this  word  is  not  sounded. 


70  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

So  we  were  left  galloping,  Joris  and  I, 
Past  Looz  and  past  Tongres,  no  cloud  in  the  sky; 
The  broad  sun  above  laughed  a  pitiless  laugh, 
'Neath  our  feet  broke  the  brittle  bright  stubble 

like  chaff; 
Till  over  by  Dalhem  a  dome-spire  sprang  white, 
And   "Gallop,"   gasped  Joris,    "for   Aix   is   in 

sight!" 

"How  they'll  gi^eet  us!" — and  all  in  a  moment  his 

roan 
Rolled  neck  and  croup  over,  lay  dead  as  a  stone; 
And  there  was  my  Roland  to  bear  the  whole 

weight 
Of  the  news  which  alone  could  save  Aix  from  her 

fate. 
With  his  nostrils  like  pits  full  of  blood  to  the 

brim, 
And  with  circles  of  red  for  his  eye-sockets'  rim. 

Then  I  cast  loose  my  buff  coat,  each  holster  let 

fall. 
Shook  off  both  my  jack-boots,  let  go  belt  and  all, 
Stood  up  in  the  stirrup,  leaned,  patted  his  ear. 
Called  my  Roland  his  pet-name,  my  horse  with- 
out peer ; 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  71 

Clapped  by  hands,  laughed  and  sang,  any  noise, 

bad  or  good, 
Till  at  length  into  Aix  Roland  galloped  and 

stood. 

And  all  I  remember  is,  friends  flocking  round 
As  I  sate  with  his  head  'twixt  my  knees  on  the 

ground, 
And  no  voice  but  was  praising  this  Roland  of 

mine, 
As  I  poured  down  his  throat  our  last  measure  of 

wine, 
Which  (the  burgesses  voted  by  common  consent) 
Was  no  more  than  his  due  who  brought  good  news 

from  Ghent. 


THE  O'KAVANAGH. 

J.  A.  SHEA. 
T. 

The  Saxons  had  met,  and  the  banquet  was  spread, 
And  the  wine  in  fleet  circles  the  jubilee  led; 
And  the  banners  that  hung  round  the  festal  that 

night, 
Seemed  brighter  by  far  tfian  when  lifted  in  fight. 


72  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

II. 

In  came  the  O'Kavanagh,  fair  as  the  morn, 
When  earth  to  new  beauty  and  vigor  is  born; 
They  shrank  from  his  glance  like  the  waves  from 

the  prow, 
For  nature's  nobihty  sat  on  his  brow. 

III. 

Attended  alone  by  his  vassal  and  bard; 
No  trumpet  to  herald — no  clansmen  to  guard — 
He  came  not  attended  by  steed  or  by  steel : 
No  danger  he  knew,  for  no  fear  did  he  feel. 

IV. 

In  eye  and  on  lip  his  high  confidence  smiled — 
So  proud,  yet  so  knightly — so  gallant,  yet  mild; 
He  moved  like  a  god  through  the  light  of  that 

hall. 
And  a  smile,  full  of  courtliness,  proffered  to  all. 


"Come  pledge  us,  lord  chieftain!  come  pledge 

us!"  they  cried; 
Unsuspectingly  free  to  the  pledge  he  replied ; 
And  this  was  the  peace-branch  O'Kavanagh  bore: 
"The  friendships  to  come,  not  the  feuds  that  are 

o'er." 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  73 

VI. 

But,  minstrel!  why  cometh  a  change  o'er  thy 

theme? 
Why  sing  of  red  battle — what  dream  dost  thou 

dream? 
Ha!  ''Treason's"   the  cry,  and  "Revenge"  is  the 

call! 
As  the  swords  of  the  Saxon  surrounded  the  hall. 

VII. 

A  kingdom  for  Angelo's  mind!  to  portray 

Green  Erin's  undaunted  avenger,  that  day; 

The  far-flashing  sword,  and  the  death-darting 

eye. 
Like  some  comet  commissioned  with  wrath  from 

the  sky. 

VIII. 

Through  the  ranks  of  the  Saxon  he  hewed  his 

red  way — 
Through  lances,  and  sabres,  and  hostile  array; 
And,  mounting  his  charger,  he  left  them  to  tell 
The  tale  of  that  feast,  and  its  bloody  farewell! 

IX. 

And  now  on  the  Saxons  his  clansmen  advance. 
With  a  shout  from  each  heart,  and  a  soul  in  each 
lance. 


74  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

He  rushed,  like  a  storm,  o'er  the  night-covered 

heath. 
And  swept  through  their  ranks,  like  the  angel  of 

death. 

X. 

Then  hurrah!  for  thy  glory,  young  chieftain, 

hurrah ! 
Oh!  had  we  such  lightning-souled  heroes  to-day, 
Again  would  our  "Sunburst"*  expand  in  the  gale. 
And  freedom  exult  o'er  the  green  Innisfail. 

*  Irish  national  banner. 


THE  DEATH  OF  MARMION. 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 

And  soon  straight  up  the  hill  there  rode 
Two  horsemen,  drenched  with  gore. 
And  in  their  arms,  a  helpless  load, 
A  wounded  knight  they  bore. 
His  hand  still  strained  the  broken  brand, 
His  arms  were  smeared  with  blood  and  sand ; 
Dragged  from  among  the  horses'  feet, 
With  dinted  shield  and  helmet  beat. 
The  falcon-crest  and  plumage  gone, — 
Can  that  be  haughty  Marmion? 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  75 

Young  Blount  his  armor  did  unlace, 
And,  gazing  on  his  ghastly  face. 

Said — ''By  Saint  George,  he's  gone! 
The  spear-wound  has  our  master  sped : 
And  see  the  deep  cut  on  his  head! 

Good-night  to  Marmion!" 
^'Unnurtured  Blount!  thy  bawling  cease; 
He  opes  his  eyes,"  said  Eustace;  "peace!" 
When,  doffed  his  casque,  he  felt  free  air. 
Around  'gan  Marmion  wildly  stare; 
"Where's  Harry  Blount?  Fitz  Eustace,  where? 
Linger  ye  here,  ye  hearts  of  hare? 
Redeem  my  pennon ! — charge  again ! 
Cry,  'Marmion  to  the  rescue!' — Vain! 
Last  of  my  race,  on  battle-plain 
That  shout  shall  ne'er  be  heard  again ! 
Must  I  bid  twice? — hence,  varlets!  fly 
Leave  Marmion  here  alone — to  die." 

With  fruitless  labor  Clara  bound. 

And  strove  to  stanch  the  gushing  wound. 

The  war,  that  for  a  space  did  fail. 

Now,  trebly  thundering,  swelled  the  gale. 

And  "Stanley!"  was  the  cry; 
A  light  on  Marmion's  visage  spread, 

And  fired  his  glazing  eye ; 
With  dying  hand,  above  his  head 


76  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

He  shook  the  fragment  of  his  blade, 

And  shouted,  "Victory!" 
'^Charge,  Chester,  charge!  On  Stanley,  on!' 

Were  the  last  words  of  Marmion. 


''STONEWALL  JACKSON'S  WAY/' 

Come,  stack  arms,  men!    Pile  on  the  rails. 

Stir  up  the  camp-fire  bright ; 
No  matter  if  the  canteen  fails. 

We'll  make  a  roaring  night. 
Here  Shenandoah  brawls  along. 
There  burly  Blue  Ridge  echoes  strong. 
To  swell  the  brigade's  rousing  song 

Of  "Stonewall  Jackson's  way." 

We  see  him  now — the  old  slouched  hat 

Cocked  o'er  his  eye  askew. 
The  shrewd,  dry  smile,  the  speech  so  pat. 

So  calm,  so  blunt,  so  true. 
The  "Blue-Light  Elder"  knows  'em  well; 
Says  he,  "That's  Banks — ^he's  fond  of  shell. 
Lord  save  his  soul!    We'll  give  him" — well. 

That's  "Stonewall  Jackson's  way." 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  77 

Silence!  ground  arms!  kneel  all!  caps  off! 

Old  Blue-Light's  going  to  pray. 
Strangle  the  fool  that  dares  to  scoff! 

Attention!  it's  his  way. 
Appealing  from  his  native  sod, 
In  forma  pauperis  to  God — 
"Lay  bare  thine  arm,  stretch  forth  thy  rod! 

Amen!"    That's  "Stonewall's  way." 

He's  in  the  saddle  now, — Fall  in ! 

Steady !  the  whole  brigade ! 
Hill's  at  the  ford,  cut  off — we'll  win 

His  way  out,  ball  and  blade! 
What  matter  if  our  shoes  are  worn? 
What  matter  if  our  feet  are  torn? 
"Quick-step!  we're  with  him  before  dawn!" 

That's  "Stonewall  Jackson's  way." 

The  sun's  bright  lances  rout  the  mists 

Of  morning,  and,  by  George! 
Here's  Longstreet  struggling  in  the  lists. 

Hemmed  in  an  ugly  gorge. 
Pope  and  his  Yankees,  whipped  before, — 
"Bay'nets  and  grape!"  hear  Stonewall  roar; 
"Charge,  Stuart!    Pay  off  Ashby's  score!" 

In  "Stonewall  Jackson's  way." 


78  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

Ah !  maiden,  wait  and  watch  and  yearn 
For  news  of  Stonewall's  band! 

Ah!  widow,  read  with  eyes  that  burn 
That  ring  upon  thy  hand. 

Ah!  wife,  sew  on,  pray  on,  hope  on! 

Thy  life  shall  not  be  all  forlorn; 

The  foe  had  better  ne'er  been  born 
That  gets  in  '* Stonewall's  way." 


KEARNEY  AT  SEVEN  PINES, 

E.  C.  STEDMAN. 

So  that  soldierly  legend  is  still  on  its  journey — 
That  story  of  Kearney  who  knew  not  to  yield! 
'Twas  the  day  when  with  Jameson,  fierce  Berry 
and  Birney 
Against  twenty  thousand  he  rallied  the  field, 
Where  the  red  volleys  poured,  where  the  clamor 
rose  highest. 
Where  the  dead  lay  in  climips  through  the 
dwarf  oak  and  pine. 
Where  the  aim  from  the  thicket  was  surest  and 
nighest. 
No  charge  like  Phil  Kearney's  along  the  whole 
line. 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  79 

When  the  battle  went  ill  and  the  bravest  were 

solemn, 
Near  the  dark  Seven  Pines,  where  we  still  held 

our  ground, 
He  rode  down  the  length  of  the  withering  column 
And  his  heart  at  our  war-cry  leaped  up  at  a 

bound. 
He  snuif ed,  like  his  charger,  the  wind  of  the 

powder;  • 

His  sword  waved  us  on  and  we  answered  the 

sign. 
Loud  our  cheer  as  we  rushed,  but  his  laugh  rang 

the  louder — 
"There's  the  devil's  own  fun,  boys,  along  the 

whole  hne!" 

How  he  strode  his  brown  steed!  how  we  saw  his 
blade  brighten 
In  the  one  hand  still  left,  and  the  reins  in  his 
teeth; 
He  laughed  like  a  boy  when  the  holidays  heighten, 
But  a  soldier's  glance  shot  from  his  visor  be- 
neath. 
Up  came  the  reserves  to  the  valley  infernal. 
Asking  where  to  go  in,  through  the  clearing  or 
pine? 


80  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

"Oh,  anywhere!    Forward!    'Tis  all  the  same, 
Colonel; 
You'll  find  lovely  fighting  along  the   whole 
line!" 

Oh,  coil  the  black  shroud  of  the  night  at  Chantilly 
That  hid  him  from  sight  of  his  brave  men  and 
tried! 
Foul!  foul  sped  the  bullet  that  clipped  the  white 

lily, 

The  flower  of  our  knighthood,  the  whole  army's 
pride. 
Yet  we  dream  that  he  still,  in  that  shadowy  region 
Where  the  dead  form  their  ranks  at  the  wan 
drummer's  sign. 
Rides  on  as  of  old,  down  the  length  of  his  legion. 
And  the  word  still  is,  "Forward!"  along  the 
whole  line. 


''THE  BRIGADE  MUST   NOT   KNOW. 

SIRr 

"Who've  ye  got  there?" — "Onlj^  a  dying  brother. 

Hurt  in  the  front  just  now." 
"Good  boy !  he'll  do.    Somebody  tell  his  mother 

Where  he  was  killed,  and  how." 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  81 

*'Whom  have  you  there?" — "A  crippled  courier, 
Major, 
Shot  by  mistake,  we  hear. 
He  was  with  Stonewall." — Cruel  work  they've 
made  here; 
Quick  with  him  to  the  rear!" 

"Well,  who  comes  next?" — ^'Doctor,  speak  low, 

speak  low,  sir; 
Don't  let  the  men  find  out! 
It's  Stonewall!"— "God!"— "The  brigade  must 

not  know,  sir. 

While  there's  a  foe  about !" 

Whom   have   we   here — shrouded    in   martial 
manner. 

Crowned  with  a  martyr's  charm? 
A  grand  dead  hero,  in  a  living  banner, 

Born  of  his  heart  and  arm : 

The   heart   whereon    his   cause  hung — see   how 
clingeth 
That  banner  to  his  bier! 
The  arm  wherewith  his  cause  struck — hark!  how 
ringeth 
His  trumpet  in  their  rear! 


82  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

THE  BONNETS  OF  BONNY  DUNDEE. 

1689. 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 

To  the  Lords  of  Convention  'twas  Claver'se  who 

spoke, 
''Ere  the  King's  crown  shall  fall  there  are  crowns 

to  be  broke; 
So  let  each  Cavalier  who  loves  honor  and  me 
Come  follow  the  bonnet  of  Bonny  Dundee!" 

Come  fill  up  my  cup,  come  fill  up  my  can ; 
Come  saddle  your  horses,  and  call  up  your  men ; 
Come  open  the  West  Port  and  let  me  gang  free, 
And  it's  room  for  the  bonnets  of  Bonny  Dundee ! 

Dundee  he  is  mounted,  he  rides  up  the  street. 

The  bells  are  rung  backward,  the  drums  they  are 
beat ; 

But  the  Provost,  douce  man,  said,  "Just  e'en  let 
him  be. 

The  gude  toun  is  weel  quit  of  that  deil  of  Dun- 
dee!" 

Come  fill  up  my  cup,  S^c. 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  83 

As  he  rode  down  the  sanctified  bends  of  the  Bow, 
Ilk  carline  was  flying  and  shaking  her  prow ; 
But   the   young   plants   of    grace   they   looked 

couthie  and  slee, 
Thinking,   '*Luck  to  thy  bonnet    thou  Bonny 

Dundee." 

Come  fill  up  my  cup,  S^c, 

With  sour- featured  Whigs  the  Grass-market  was 

crammed, 
As  if  half  the  West  had  set  tryst  to  be  hanged; 
There  was  spite  in  each  look,  there  was  fear  in 

each  e'e, 
As   they   watched   for   the  bonnets   of   Bonny 

Dundee. 

Come  fill  up  my  cup,  8^c. 

These  cowls  of  Kilmarnock  had  spits  and  had 

spears, 
And  lang-hafted  gullies  to  kill  Cavaliers; 
But  they  shrimk  to  close-heads  and  the  causeway 

was  free 
At  the  toss  of  the  boimet  of  Bonny  Dundee. 

Come  fill  up  my  cup,  8^c. 


84  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

He  spurred  to  the  foot  of  the  proud  Castle  rock, 
And  with  the  gay  Gordon  he  gallantly  spoke : 
'^'Let  Mons  Meg  and  her  marrows  speak  twa 

words  or  three, 
For  the  love  of  the  bonnet  of  Bonny  Dundee." 

Come  fill  up  my  cup,  S^c. 

The  Gordon  demands  of  him  which  way  he  goes, 
"Where'er  shall  direct  me  the  shade  of  Montrose! 
Your  grace  in  short  time  shall  hear  tidings  of  me, 
Or  that  low  lies  the  bonnet  of  Bonny  Dundee." 

Come  fill  up  my  cup,  <|c. 

'*There  are  hills  beyond  Pentland  and  lands  be- 
yond Forth; 

If  there's  lords  in  the  Lowlands,  there's  chiefs  in 
the  North; 

There  are  wild  Duniewassals  three  thousand  times 
three 

Will  cry  Hoigh!  for  the  bonnet  of  Bonny  Dun- 
dee." 

Come  fill  up  my  cup,  S^c. 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  85 

"There's  brass  on  the  target  of  darkened  bull- 
hide, 

There's  steel  in  the  scabbard  that  dangles  beside ; 

The  brass  shall  be  burnished,  the  steel  shall  flash 
free. 

At  a  toss  of  the  bonnet  of  Bonny  Dundee." 

Come  fill  up  my  cup,  8^c. 

"Away  to  the  hills,  to  the  caves,  to  the  rocks; 
Ere  I  own  a  usurper,  I'll  couch  with  the  fox; 
And  tremble,  false  Whigs,  in  the  midst  of  your 

glee, 
You  have  not  seen  the  last  of  my  bonnet  and  me  I'* 

Come  fill  up  my  cup,  8^c. 

He  waved  his  proud  hand,  and  the  trumpets  were 

blown. 
The  kettle-drums  clashed  and  the  horsemen  rode 

on. 
Till  (Ml  Ravelston's  cliif  s  and  on  Clermiston's  lea 
Died  away  the  wild  war-notes  of  Bonny  Dundee. 

Come  fill  up  my  cup,  come  fill  up  my  can ; 
Come  saddle  the  horses,  and  call  up  the  men; 
Come  open  your  gates,  and  let  me  gae  free. 
For  it's  up  with  the  bonnets  of  Bonny  Dundee! 


86  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

THE  DANDY  FIFTH. 

FRANK  H.   GASSAWAY. 

'Twas  the  time  of  the  workingmen's  great  strike, 

When  all  the  land  stood  still 
At  the  sudden  roar  from  the  hungry  mouths 

That  labor  could  not  fill ; 
When  the  thunder  of  the  railroad  ceased, 

And  startled  towns  could  spy 
A  hundred  blazing  factories 

Painting  each  midnight  sky. 

Through  Philadelphia's  surging  streets 

Marched  the  brown  ranks  of  toil. 
The  grimy  legions  of  the  shops, 

The  tillers  of  the  soil ; 
White-faced  militia-men  looked  on, 

While  women  shrank  with  dread ; 
'Twas  muscle  against  money  then, — 

'Twas  riches  against  bread. 

Once,  as  the  mighty  mob  tramped  on, 

A  carriage  stopped  the  way. 
Upon  the  silken  seat  of  which 

A  young  patrician  lay. 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  87 

And  as,  with  haughty  glance,  he  swept 

Along  the  jeering  crowd, 
A  white-haired  blacksmith  in  the  ranks 

Took  off  his  cap  and  bowed. 

That  night  the  Labor  League  was  met, 

And  soon  the  chairman  said : 
''There  hides  a  Judas  in  our  midst. 

One  man  who  bows  his  head, 
Who  bends  the  coward's  servile  knee 

When  capital  rolls  by." 
"Down  with  him!    Kill  the  traitor  cur!" 

Rang  out  the  savage  cry. 

Up  rose  the  blacksmith,  then,  and  held 

Erect  his  head  of  gray : 
"I  am  no  traitor,  though  I  bowed 

To  a  rich  man's  son  to-day ; 
And  though  you  kill  me  as  I  stand — 

As  like  you  mean  to  do — 
I  want  to  tell  you  a  story  short. 

And  I  ask  you'll  hear  me  through. 

"I  was  one  of  those  who  enlisted  firsts 

The  Old  Flag  to  defend. 
With  Pope  and  Hallock,  with  'Mac'  and  Grant, 

I  followed  to  the  end ; 


88  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

And  'twas  somewhere  down  on  the  Rapidan, 
When  the  Union  cause  looked  drear, 

That  a  regiment  of  rich  young  bloods 
Came  down  to  us  from  here. 

"Their  uniforms  were  by  tailors  cut; 

They  brought  hampers  of  good  wine ; 
And  every  squad  had  a  servant,  too, 

To  keep  their  boots  in  shine ; 
They'd  naught  to  say  to  us  dusty  Vets,' 

And,  through  the  whole  brigade, 
We  called  them  the  kid-gloved  Dandy  Fifth, 

When  we  passed  them  on  parade. 

"Well,  they  were  sent  to  hold  a  fort 

The  Rebs  tried  hard  to  take, 
'Twas  the  key  of  all  our  line,  which  naught 

While  it  held  out  could  break. 
But  a  fearful  fight  we  lost  just  then — 

The  reserve  came  up  too  late ; 
And  on  that  fort,  and  the  Dandy  Fifth, 

Hung  the  whole  division's  fate. 

"Three  times  we  tried  to  take  them  aid. 

And  each  time  back  we  fell. 
Though  once  we.  could  hear  the  fort's  far  guns 

Boom  like  a  funeral  knell ; 


TFIE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  89 

Till  at  length  Joe  Hooker's  corps  came  up, 
And  then  straight  through  we  broke ; 

How  we  cheered  as  we  saw  those  dandy  coats 
Still  back  of  the  drifting  smoke ! 

*'With  the  bands  all  front  and  our  colors  spread 

We  swarmed  up  the  parapet, 
But  the  sight  that  silenced  our  welcome  shout 

I  shall  never  in  life  forget. 
Four  days  before  had  their  water  gone, — 

They  had  dreaded  that  the  most, — 
The  next  their  last  scant  ration  went. 

And  each  man  looked  a  ghost. 

**As  he  stood,  gaunt-eyed,  behind  his  gun. 

Like  a  crippled  stag  at  bay. 
And  watched  starvation — ^though  not  defeat — 

Draw  nearer  every  day. 
Of  all  the  Fifth,  not  fourscore  men 

Could  in  their  places  stand. 
And  their  white  lips  told  a  fearful  tale. 

As  we  grasped  each  bloodless  hand. 

"The  rest  in  the  stupor  of  famine  lay,  ] 

Save  here  and  there  a  few 
In  death  sat  rigid  against  the  guns, 

,Grim  sentinels  in  blue; 


90  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

And  their  Colonel,  he  could  not  speak  or  stir, 

But  we  saw  his  proud  eye  thrill 
As  he  simply  glanced  at  the  shot-scarred  staff 

Where  the  old  flag  floated  still! 

"Now,  I  hate  the  tyrants  who  grind  us  down, 

While  the  wolf  snarls  at  our  door, 
And  the  men  who've  risen  from  us — to  laugh 

At  the  misery  of  the  poor ; 
But  I  tell  you,  mates,  while  this  weak  old  hand 

I  have  left  the  strength  to  lift. 
It  will  touch  my  cap  to  the  proudest  swell 

Who  fought  in  the  Dandy  Fifth!" 


THE  FAMINE. 

HENRY  W^ADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

O  the  long  and  dreary  Winter! 
O  the  cold  and  cruel  Winter! 
Ever  thicker,  thicker,  thicker 
Froze  the  ice  on  lake  and  river. 
Ever  deeper,  deeper,  deeper 
Fell  the  snow  o'er  all  the  landscape, 
Fell  the  covering  snow,  and  drifted 
Through  the  forest,  round  the  village. 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  91 

Hardly  from  his  buried  wigwam 
Could  the  hunter  force  a  passage; 
With  his  mittens  and  his  snow-shoes 
Vainly  walked  he  through  the  forest, 
Sought  for  bird  or  beast  and  found  none, 
Saw  no  track  of  deer  or  rabbit, 
In  the  snow  beheld  no  footprints. 
In  the  ghastly,  gleaming  forest 
Fell,  and  could  not  rise  from  weakness. 
Perished  there  from  cold  and  hunger. 

O  the  famine  and  the  fever ! 
O  the  wasting  of  the  famine ! 
O  the  blasting  of  the  fever! 
O  the  wailing  of  the  children! 
O  the  anguish  of  the  women ! 

All  the  earth  was  sick  and  famished; 
Hungry  was  the  air  around  them. 
Hungry  was  the  sky  above  them. 
And  the  hungry  stars  in  heaven 
Like  the  eyes  of  wolves  glared  at  them! 

Into  Hiawatha's  wigwam 
Came  two  other  guests,  as  silent 
As  the  ghosts  were,  and  as  gloomy. 
Waited  not  to  be  invited, 
Did  not  parley  at  the  doorway. 
Sat  there  without  word  of  welcome 
In  the  seat  of  Laughing  Water; 


92  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

Looked  with  haggard  eyes  and  hollow 
At  the  face  of  Laughing  Water. 

And  the  foremost  said:  "Behold  me! 
I  am  Famine,  Bukadawin!" 
And  the  other  said:  ^'Behold  me! 
I  am  Fever,  Ahkosewin!" 

And  the  lovely  Minnehaha 
Shuddered  as  they  looked  upon  her, 
Shuddered  at  the  words  they  uttered, 
Lay  down  on  her  bed  in  silence. 
Hid  her  face,  but  made  no  answer; 
Lay  there  trembling,  freezing,  burning 
At  the  looks  they  cast  upon  her, 
At  the  fearful  words  they  uttered. 

Forth  into  the  empty  forest 
Rushed  the  maddened  Hiawatha ; 
In  his  heart  was  deadly  sorrow. 
In  his  face  a  stonv  firmness ; 
On  his  brow  the  sweat  of  anguish 
Started,  but  it  froze  and  fell  not. 
Wrapped  in  furs  and  armed  for  hunting. 
With  his  mighty  bow  of  ash-tree. 
With  his  quiver  full  of  arrows, 
With  his  mittens,  Minjekahwun, 
Into  the  vast  and  vacant  forest 
On  his  snow-shoes  strode  he  forward. 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  93 

"Gitche  Manito,  the  Mighty!" 
Cried  he  with  his  face  uplifted 
In  that  bitter  hour  of  anguish, 
"Give  your  children  food,  O  father! 
Give  us  food,  or  we  must  perish! 
Give  me  food  for  Minnehaha, 
For  my  dying  Minnehaha!" 

Through  the  far-resounding  forest. 
Through  the  forest  vast  and  vacant 
Rang  that  cry  of  desolation. 
But  there  came  no  other  answer 
Than  the  echo  of  his  crying. 
Than  the  echo  of  the  woodlands, 
''Minnehaha!  Minnehaha!" 

All  day  long  roved  Hiawatha 
In  that  melancholy  forest. 
Through  the  shadow  of  whose  thickets. 
In  the  pleasant  days  of  Summer, 
Of  that  ne'er  forgotten  Summer, 
He  had  brought  his  young  wife  homeward 
From  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs ; 
When  the  birds  sang  in  the  thickets, 
And  the  streamlets  laughed  and  glistened. 
And  the  air  was  full  of  fragrance 
And  the  lovely  Laughing  Water 
Said  with  voice  that  did  not  tremble 
*'I  will  follow  you,  my  husband!" 


94  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

In  the  wigwam  with  Nokomis, 

With  those  gloomy  guests,  that  watched  her, 

With  the  Famine  and  the  Fever, 

She  was  lying,  the  Beloved, 

She  the  dying  Minnehaha. 

''Hark!"  she  said;  'I  hear  a  rushing, 
Hear  a  roaring  and  a  rushing, 
Hear  the  Falls  of  Minnehaha 
Calling  to  me  from  a  distance!" 
"No,  my  child!"  said  old  Nokomis, 
''  'Tis  the  night- wind  in  the  pine  trees!" 
''Look!"  she  said;  "I  see  my  father 
Standing  lonely  at  his  doorway. 
Beckoning  to  me  from  his  wigwam 
In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs!" 
"No,  my  child!"  said  old  Nokomis, 
"  'Tis  the  smoke,  that  waves  and  beckons!" 
"Ah!"  said  she,  the  eyes  of  Pauguk 
Glare  upon  me  in  the  darkness, 
I  can  feel  his  icy  fingers 
Clasping  mine  amid  the  darkness ! 
Hiawatha!  Hiawatha!" 
And  the  desolate  Hiawatha, 
Far  away  amid  the  forest. 
Miles  away  among  the  mountains, 
Heard  that  sudden  cry  of  anguish. 
Heard  the  voice  of  Minnehaha 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  95 

Calling  to  him  in  the  darkness, 
"Hiawatha !  Hiawatha !" 
Over  snowfields  waste  and  pathless 
Under  snow-encumbered  branches, 
Homeward  hurried  Hiawatha, 
Empty-handed,  heavy-hearted. 
Heard  Nokomis  moaning,  wailing: 
"Wahonowin!  Wahonowin! 
Would  that  I  had  perished  for  you, 
Would  that  I  were  dead  as  you  are ! 
Wahonowin!  Wahonowin!" 

And  he  rushed  into  the  wigwam, 
Saw  the  old  Nokomis  slowly 
Rocking  to  and  fro  and  moaning. 
Saw  his  lovely  Minnehaha 
Lying  dead  and  cold  before  him,  ' 

And  his  bursting  heart  within  him 
Uttered  such  a  cry  of  anguish. 
That  the  forest  moaned  and  shuddered. 
That  the  very  stars  in  heaven 
Shook  and  trembled  with  his  anguish. 

Then  he  sat  down,  still  and  speechless. 
On  the  bed  of  Minnehaha, 
At  the  feet  of  Laughing  Water, 
At  those  willing  feet,  that  never 
More  would  lightly  run  to  meet  him. 
Never  more  would  lightly  follow. 


96  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

With  both  hands  his  face  he  covered, 
Seven  long  days  and  nights  he  sat  there, 
As  if  in  a  swoon  he  sat  there, 
Speechless,  motionless,  unconscious 
Of  the  daylight  or  the  darkness. 

Then  they  buried  Minnehaha ; 
In  the  snow  a  grave  they  made  her, 
In  the  forest  deep  and  darksome. 
Underneath  the  moaning  hemlocks ; 
Clothed  in  her  richest  garments. 
Wrapped  in  her  robes  of  ermine ; 
Covered  her  with  snow,  like  ermine. 
Thus  they  buried  Minnehaha. 

And  at  night  a  fire  was  lighted. 
On  her  grave  four  times  was  kindled. 
For  her  soul  upon  its  journey 
To  the  Islands  of  the  Blessed. 
From  his  doorway  Hiawatha 
Saw  it  burning  in  the  forest, 
Lighting  up  the  gloomy  hemlocks; 
From  his  sleepless  bed  uprising, 
From  the  bed  of  Minnehaha, 
Stood  and  watched  it  at  the  door-way,  - 
That  it  might  not  be  extinguished, 
Might  not  leave  her  in  the  darkness. 

"Farewell!"  said  he,  "Minnehaha! 
Farewell,  O  my  Laughing  Water! 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  97 

All  my  heart  is  buried  with  you, 
All  my  thoughts  go  onward  with  you! 
Come  not  back  again  to  labor, 
Come  not  back  again  to  suiFer, 
Where  the  Famine  and  the  Fever 
Wear  the  heart  and  waste  the  body. 
Soon  my  task  will  be  completed, 
Soon  your  footsteps  I  shall  follow 
To  the  Islands  of  the  Blessed, 
To  the  Kingdom  of  Ponemah, 
To  the  Land  of  the  Hereafter!" 


FATE  OF  CHARLES  THE  TWELFTH. 

SAMUEL  JOHNSON. 

On  what  foundation  stands  the  warrior's  pride 
How  just  his  hopes,  let  Swedish  Charles  decide! 
A  frame  of  adamant,  a  soul  of  fire. 
No  dangers  fright  him,  and  no  labors  tire ; 
O'er  love,  o'er  fear,  extends  his  wide  domain, 
Unconquered  lord  of  pleasure  and  of  pain ; 
No  joys  to  him  pacific  sceptres  yield,  • 
War  sounds  the  trump,  he  rushes  to  the  field. 
Behold  surrounding  Kings  their  powers  combine 
And  one  capitulate,  and  one  resign 


98  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

Peace  courts  his  hand,  but  spreads  her  charms  in 

vain, 
*'Think  nothing  gained,"  he  cries,  ''till  naught 

remain 
On  Moscow's  walls  till  Gothic  standards  fly. 
And  all  be  mine  beneath  the  Polar  sky." 
The  march  begins  in  military  state. 
And  nations  on  his  eye  suspended  wait. 
Stern  Famine  guards  the  solitary  coast. 
And  Winter  barricades  the  realms  of  Frost; 
He  comes — nor  want  nor  cold  his  course  delay; — 
Hide,  blushing  Glory,  hide  Pultowa's  day! 
The  vanquished  hero  leaves  his  broken  bands. 
And  shows  his  miseries  in  distant  lands ; 
Condemned  a  needy  supplicant  to  wait, 
While  ladies  interpose,  and  slaves  debate. 
But  did  not  Chance  at  length  her  error  mend? 
Did  no  subverted  empire  mark  his  end? 
Did  rival  monarchs  give  the  fatal  wound? 
Or  hostile  millions  press  him  to  the  ground? 
His  fall  was  destined  to  a  barren  strand, 
A  petty  fortress,  and  a  dubious  hand ; 
He  left  the  name,  at  which  the  world  grew  pale, 
To  point  a  moral,  or  adorn  a  tale ! 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  99 

THE  TRUE  KING. 

From  Seneca. 

LEIGH  HUNT. 

'Tis  not  wealth  that  makes  a  King, 
Nor  the  purple  coloring; 
Nor  a  brow  that's  bound  with  gold, 
Nor  gate  on  mighty  hinges  rolled. 

The  King  is  he,  who,  void  of  fear. 
Looks  abroad  with  bosom  clear; 
Who  can  tread  ambition  down. 
Nor  be  swayed  by  smile  or  frown; 
Nor  for  all  the  treasure  cares. 
That  mine  conceals,  or  harvest  wears, 
Or  that  golden  sands  deliver. 
Bosomed  in  a  glassy  river. 

What  shall  move  his  placid  might? 
Not  the  headlong  thunder-light. 
Nor  the  shapes  of  slaughter's  trade. 
With  onward  lance,  or  fiery  blade. 
Safe,  with  wisdom  for  his  crown, 
He  looks  on  all  things  calmly  down, 
He  welcomes  Fate,  when  Fate  is  near 
Nor  taints  his  dying  breath  with  fear. 


10«  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

No — ^to  fear  not  earthly  thing, 
This  it  is  that  makes  the  King; 
And  all  of  us,  whoe'er  we  be 
May  carve  us  out  that  royalty. 


INCIDENT  OF  THE  FRENCH  CAMP. 

ROBERT  BROWNING. 

You  know,  we  French  stormed  Ratisbon: 

A  mile  or  so  away. 
On  a  little  moimd,  Napoleon 

Stood,  on  our  storming-day ; 
With  neck  thrust  out,  you  fancy  how, 

Legs  wide,  arms  locked  behind, 
As  if  to  balance  the  prone  brow 

Oppressive  with  its  mind. 

Just  as  perhaps  he  mused:  '*My  plans 

That  soar,  to  earth  may  fall, 
Let  once  my  army-leader  Lannes 

Waver  at  yonder  wall," — 
Out  'twixt  the  battery-smokes  there  flew 

A  rider,  bound  on  bound 
Full-galloping;  nor  bridle  drew 

Until  he  reached  the  mound. 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  101 

Then  off  there  flung  in  smiling  joy, 

And  held  himself  erect 
By  just  his  horse's  mane,  a  boy: 

You  hardly  could  suspect — 
( So  tight  he  kept  his  lips  compressed. 

Scarce  any  blood  came  through) 
You  looked  twice  ere  you  saw  his  breast 

Wa^  all  but  shot  in  two. 

"Well,''  cried  he,  "Emperor,  by  God's  grace 

We've  got  you  Ratisbon! 
The  Marshal's  in  the  market-place, 

And  you'll  be  there  anon 
To  see  your  flag-bird  flap  his  vans 

Where  I,  to  heart's  desire. 
Perched  him!"    The  Chief's  eye  flashed;  his 
plans 

Soared  up  again  like  fire. 

The  Chief's  eye  flashed ;  but  presently 

Softened  itself,  as  sheathes 
A  film  the  mother-eagle's  eye 

When  her  bruised  eaglet  breathes ; 
"You're  wounded !"  "Nay,"  his  soldier's  pride 

Touched  to  the  quick,  he  said : 
"I'm  killed,  Sire!"    And,  his  chief  beside, 

Smiling  the  boy  fell  dead. 


102  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

WILLIAM  TELL  DESCRIBES  HIS 
ESCAPE. 

JOHANN  FREDERICK  YON   SCHILLER. 

I  lay  on  deck,  fast  bound  with  cords,  disarmed, 
In  utter  hopelessness.    I  did  not  think 
Again  to  see  the  gladsome  light  of  day, 
Nor  the  dear  faces  of  my  wife  and  children. 
And  eyed  disconsolate  the  waste  of  waters. 

Then  we  put  forth  upon  the  lake, — ^the  Viceroy 
Rudolph  der  Harras,  and  their  suite.     My  bow 
And  quiver  lay  astern  beside  the  helm ; 
And  just  as  we  had  reached  the  corner,  near 
The  Little  Axen,  Heaven  ordained  it  so. 
That  from  the  Gotthardt's  gorge  a  hurricane 
Swept  down  upon  us  with  such  headlong  force. 
That  every  rower's  heart  within  him  sank. 
And  all  on  board  looked  for  a  watery  grave. 
Then  heard  I  one  of  the  attendant  train. 
Turning  to  Gessler,  in  this  strain  accost  him: 
"You  see  our  danger,  and  your  own,  my  lord. 
And  that  we  hover  on  the  verge  of  death. 
The  boatmen  there  are  powerless  from  fear, 
Nor  are  they  confident  what  course  to  take; — 
Now,  here  is  William  Tell,  a  fearless  man. 
And  knows  to  steer  with  more  than  common  skill. 
How  if  we  should  avail  ourselves  of  him. 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  103 

In  this  emergency?"    The  Viceroy  then 
Addressed  me  thus:   "If  thou  wilt  undertake 
To  bring  us  through  this  tempest  safely,  Tell, 
I  might  consent  to  free  thee  from  thy  bonds." 
I  answered,  "Yes,  my  lord,  with  God's  assistance 
I'll  see  what  can  be  done,  and  help  us  Heaven!" 
On  this  they  loosed  me  from  my  bonds,  and  I 
Stood  by  the  helm  and  fairly  steered  along. 
Yet  ever  eyed  my  shooting  gear  askance. 
And  kept  a  watchful  eye  upon  the  shore, 
To  find  some  point  where  I  might  leap  to  land. 
And  when  I  had  descried  a  shelvin^^  crag, 
That  jutted,  smooth  atop,  into  the  lake, — 
I  bade  the  men  put  forth  their  utmost  might. 
Until  we  came  before  the  shelving  crag. 
For  there,  I  said,  the  danger  will  be  past ! 
Stoutly  they  pulled,  and  soon  we  neared  the  point 
One  prayer  to  God  for  His  assisting  grace. 
And,  straining  every  muscle,  I  brought  round. 
The  vessel's  stern  close  to  the  rocky  wall ; 
Then,  snatching  up  my  weapons,  with  a  bound 
I  swung  myself  upon  the  flattened  shelf. 
And  with  my  feet  thrust  off,  with  all  my  might, 
The  puny  bark  into  the  hell  of  waters. 
There  let  it  drift  about,  as  Heaven  ordains! 
Thus  am  I  here,  delivered  from  the  might 
Of  the  dread  storm,  and  man,  more  dreadful  still. 


104  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

THE  BURIAL  OF  SIR  JOHN  MOORE. 

CHARLES  WOLFE. 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note, 
As  his  corse  to  the  rampart  we  hurried ; 

Not  a  soldier  discharged  his  farewell  shot 
O'er  the  grave  where  our  hero  we  buried. 

We  buried  him  darkly  at  dead  of  night, 
The  sod  with  our  bayonets  turning; 

By  the  struggling  moonbeam's  misty  light, 
And  the  lantern  dimly  burning. 

No  useless  coffin  enclosed  his  breast. 

Not  in  sheet  nor  in  shroud  we  wound  him; 

But  he  lay  like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest. 
With  his  martial  cloak  around  him! 

Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we  said, 
And  we  spoke  not  a  word  of  sorrow ; 

But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face  that  was 
dead. 
And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow. 

We  thought,  as  we  hollowed  his  narrow  bed. 
And  smoothed  down  his  lonely  pillow. 

That  the  foe  and  the  stranger  would  tread  o'er 
his  head, 
And  we  far  away  on  the  billow! 


I  swung  myself  upon  tlie  flattened  shelf 
And  with  my  feet  thrust   off,  with  all  my  might. 
The  puny  bark  into  the  hell  of  waters. — Page  103. 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  I05 

Lightly  they'll  talk  of  the  spirit  that's  gone, 
And  o'er  his  cold  ashes  upbraid  him ; 

But  little  he'll  reck  if  they  let  him  sleep  on, 
In  the  grave  where  a  Briton  has  laid  him. 

But  half  of  our  heavy  task  was  done, 

When  the  clock  struck  the  hour  for  retiring; 

And  we  heard  the  distant  random  gun 
That  the  foe  was  sullenly  firing. 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down, 

From  the  field  of  his  fame  fresh  and  gory; 

We  carved  not  a  line,  and  we  raised  not  a  stone — 
But  we  left  him  alone  with  his  glory ! 


THE   CAVALIER'S   ESCAPE. 

WALTER  THORNBURY. 

Trample!  trample!  went  the  roan. 

Trap!  trap!  went  the  gray; 
But  pad !  pad!  pad  !  like  a  thing  that  was  mad, 

My  chestnut  broke  away. 
It  was  just  five  miles  from  Salisbury  town. 

And  but  one  hour  to  day. 


106  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

Thud !  THUD !  came  on  the  heavy  roan, 

Rap!  rap!  the  mettled  gray; 
But  my  chestnut  mare  was  of  blood  so  rare, 

That  she  showed  them  all  the  way. 
Spur  on!  spur  on! — I  doffed  my  hat. 

And  wished  them  all  good-day. 

They  splashed  through  miry  rut  and  pool, — 
Splintered  through  fence  and  rail ; 

But  chestnut  Kate  switched  over  the  gate, 
I  saw  them  droop  and  tail. 

To  Salisbury  town — but  a  mile  of  down, 

Once  over  this  brook  and  rail. 

,    Trap !  trap !  I  heard  their  echoing  hoofs 
Past  the  walls  of  mossy  stone ; 
The  roan  flew  on  at  a  staggering  pace. 

But  blood  is  better  than  bone. 
I  patted  old  Kate,  and  gave  her  the  spur. 
For  I  knew  it  was  all  my  own. 

But  trample !  trample !  came  their  steeds, 
And  I  saw  their  wolf's  eyes  burn ; 

I  felt  like  a  royal  hart  at  bay, 
And  made  me  ready  to  turn. 

I  looked  where  highest  grew  the  May, 
And  deepest  arched  the  fern. 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  107 

I  flew  at  the  first  knave's  sallow  throat; 

One  blow,  and  he  was  down. 
The  second  rogue  fired  twice,  and  missed ; 

I  sliced  the  villian's  crown, — 
Clove  through  the  rest,  and  flogged  brave  Kate, 

Fast,  fast  to  Salisbury  town! 

Pad !  pad !  they  came  on  the  level  sward. 

Thud!  thud!  upon  the  sand, — 
With  a  gleam  of  swords  and  a  burnng  match, 

And  a  shaking  of  flag  and  hand ; 
But  one  long  bound,  and  I  passed  the  gate. 

Safe  from  the  canting  band. 


RICHELIEU   AND   FRANCE. 

E.  BULWER  LYTTON. 

My  liege,  your  anger  can  recall  your  trust, 
Annul  my  office,  spoil  me  of  my  lands. 
Rifle  my  coff*ers ;  but  my  name, — my  deeds, — 
Are  royal  in  a  land  beyond  your  sceptre. 
Pass  sentence  on  me,  if  you  will ; — from  Kings, 
Lo,  I  appeal  to  time!    Be  just,  my  liege. 
I  found  your  Kingdom  rent  with  heresies, 
And  bristling  with  rebellion; — lawless  nobles 
And  breadless  serfs ;  England  fomenting  discord, 
Austria,  her  clutch  on  your  dominion;  Spain 


108  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

Forging  the  prodigal  gold  of  either  Ind 
To  armed  thunderbolts.    The  Arts  lay  dead ; 
Trade   rotted   in   your  marts;    your   Armies 

mutinous. 
Your  Treasury  bankrupt.     Would  you  now 

revoke 
Your  trust,  so  be  it!  and  I  leave  you,  sole, 
Supremest  Monarch  of  the  mightiest  realm, 
From  Ganges  to  the  Icebergs.    Look  without, — 
No  foe  not  humbled!    Look  within, — the  Arts 
Quit,  for  our  schools,  their  old  Hesperides, 
The  golden  Italy!  while  throughout  the  veins 
Of  your  vast  empire  flows  in  strengthening  tides 
Trade,  the  calm  health  of  Nations!    Sire,  I  know 
That  men  have  called  me  cruel; — 
I  am  not; — I  am  just!     I  found  France  rent 

asunder. 
The  rich  men  despots,  and  the  poor  banditti. 
Sloth  in  the  mart,  and  schism  within  the  temple 
Brawls  festering  to  rebellion;  and  weak  laws 
Rotting  away  with  rust  in  antique  sheaths. 
I  have  re-created  France ;  and,  from  the  ashes 
Of  the  old  feudal  and  decrepit  carcass. 
Civilization,  on  her  luminous  wings, 
Soars,  phoenix-like,  to  Jove!    What  was  my  art? 
Genius,  some  say; — some.  Fortune; — Witchcraft, 

some. 
Not  so; — ^my  art  was  Justice! 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  109 

CROMWELL  ON  THE  DEATH  OF 
'      CHARLES  THE  FIRST. 

E.  BULWER  LYTTON. 

By  what  law  fell  King  Charles?    By  all  the 

laws 
He  left  us !    And  I,  Cromwell,  here  proclaim  it. 
Sirs,  let  us,  with  a  calm  and  sober  eye. 
Look  on  the  -spectre  of  this  ghastly  deed. 
Who  spills  man's  blood,  his  shall  by  man  be  shed! 
'Tis  Heaven's  first  law;  to  that  law  we  had  come, 
None  other  left  us.    Who,  then,  caused  the  strife 
That  crimsoned  Naseby's  field,  and  Marston's 

moor? 
It  was  the  Stuart; — so  the  Stuart  fell! 
A  victim,  in  the  pit  himself  had  digged! 
He  died  not.  Sirs,  as  hated  Kings  have  died, 
In  secret  and  in  shade, — no  eye  to  trace 
The  one  step  from  their  prison  to  their  pall; 
He  died  i'  the  eyes  of  Europe, — in  the  face 
Of  the  broad   Heaven;   amidst   the   sons   of 

England, 
Whom  he  had  outraged ;  by  a  solemn  sentence, 
Passed  by  a  solemn  Court.   Does  this  seem  guilt? 
You  pity  Charles!  'tis  well;  but  pity  more 
The  tens  of  thousand  honest  humble  men. 


110  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

Who,  by  the  tyranny  of  Charles  compelled 
To  draw  the  sword,  fell  butchered  in  the  field! 
Good  Lord!  when  one  man  dies  who  wears  a 

Crown, 
How  the  earth  trembles, — ^how  the  Nations  gape, 
Amazed  and  awed! — but  when  that  one  man's 

victims. 
Poor  worms,  unclothed  in  purple,  daily  die, 
In  the  grim  cell,  or  on  the  groaning  gibbet, 
Or  on  the  civil  field,  ye  pitying  souls 
Drop  not  one  tear  from  your  indifferent  eyes! 

He  would  have  stretched  his  will 
O'er  the  unlimited  empire  of  men's  souls, 
Fettered  the  Earth's  pure  air, — for  freedom  is 
That  air,  to  honest  lips, — and  here  he  lies. 
In  dust  most  eloquent,  to  after  time 
A  never-silent  oracle  for  Kings ! 
Was  this  the  hand  that  strained  within  its  grasp 
So  haught  a  sceptre? — this  the  shape  that  wore 
Majesty  like  a  garment?    Spurn  that  clay, — 
It  can  resent  not ;  speak  of  royal  crimes. 
And  it  can  frown  not ; — schemeless  lies  the  brain 
Whose  thoughts  were  sources  of  such  fearful 

deeds. 
What  things  are  we,  O  Lord,  when,  at  thy  will, 
A  worm  like  this  could  shake  the  mighty  world ! 

A  few  years  since,  and  in  the  port  was  moored 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  HI 

A  bark  to  far  Columbia's  forests  bound ; 
And  I  was  one  of  those  indignant  hearts 
Panting  for  exile  in  the  thirst  for  freedom. 
Then  that  pale  clay  (poor  clay,  that  was  a  King!) 
Forbade  my  parting,  in  the  wanton  pride 
Of  vain  command,  and  with  a  fated  sceptre 
Waved  back  the  shadow  of  the  death  to  come. 
Here  stands  that  baffled  and  forbidden  wanderer, 
Loftiest  amid  the  wrecks  of  ruined  empire, 
Beside  the  coffin  of  a  headless  King! 
He  thralled  my  fate, — I  have  prepared  his  doom; 
He  made  me  captive, — lo!  his  narrow  cell! 
So  hands  unseen  do  fashion  forth  the  earth 
Of  our  frail  schemes  into  our  funeral  urns ; 
So,  walking  dream-led  in  Life's  sleep,  our  steps 
Move  blindfold  to  the  scaffold  or  the  Throne! 


THE  GLOVE. 

JOHANN   FREDERICK  VON   SCHILLER. 

Before  his  lion-garden  gate, 
The  wild-beast  combat  to  await, 
King  Francis  sate: 
Around  him  were  his  nobles  placed. 
The  balcony  above  was  graced 


112  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

By  ladies  of  the  court,  in  gorgeous  state: 

And  as  with  his  finger  a  sign  he  made, 

The  iron  grating  was  open  laid. 

And  with  stately  step  and  mien 

A  lion  to  enter  was  seen. 

With  fearful  look 

His  mane  he  shook, 

And  yawning  wide, 

Stared  around  him  on  every  side; 

And  stretched  his  giant  limbs  of  strength, 

And  laid  himself  down  at  his  fearful  length. 

And  the  king  a  second  signal  made, — 

And  instant  was  opened  wide 

A  second  gate,  on  the  other  side, 

From  which,  with  fiery  bound, 

A  tiger  spnmg. 

Wildly  the  wild  one  yelled. 

When  the  lion  he  beheld; 

And,  bristKng  at  the  look. 

With  his  tail  his  sides  he  strook, 

And  rolled  his  rabid  tongue. 

And,  with  glittering  eye, 

Crept  round  the  lion  slow  and  shy 

Then,  horribly  howling, 

And  grimly  growling, 

Down  by  his  side  himself  he  laid. 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  113 

And  the  king  another  signal  made 

The  opened  grating  vomited  then 

Two  leopards  forth  from  their  dreadful  den, — 

They  rush  on  the  tiger,  with  signs  of  rage. 

Eager  the  deadly  fight  to  wage, 

Who,  fierce,  with  paws  uplifted  stood, 

And  the  lion  sprang  up  with  an  awful  roar. 

Then  were  still  the  fearful  four: 

And  the  monsters  on  the  ground 

Crouched  in  a  circle  round, 

Greedy  to  taste  of  blood. 

Now,  from  the  balcony  above, 
A  snowy  hand  let  fall  a  glove : 
Midway  between  the  beasts  of  prey, 
Lion  and  tiger, — there  it  lay. 
The  winsome  lady's  glove ! 

And  the  Lady  Kunigund,  in  bantering  mood. 
Spoke  to  Knight  Delorges,  who  by  her  stood: 
"If  the  flame  which  but  now  to  me  you  swore 
Burns  as  strong  as  it  did  before. 
Go  pick  up  my  glove.  Sir  Knight." 
And  he,  with  action  quick  as  sight, 
In  the  horrible  place  did  stand: 
And  with  dauntless  mien. 
From  the  beasts  between 


114  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

Took  up  the  glove,  with  fearless  hand; 
And  as  ladies  and  nobles  the  bold  deed  saw. 
Their  breath  they  held,  through  fear  and  awe. 
The  glove  he  brings  back,  composed  and  light. 
His  praise  was  announced  by  voice  and  look. 
And  Kunigund  rose  to  receive  the  knight 
With  a  smile  that  promised  the  deed  to  requite ; 
But  straight  in  her  face  he  flung  the  glove, — 
"I  neither  desire  your  thanks  nor  love;" 
And  from  that  same  hour  the  lady  forsook. 


THREE  DAYS  IN  THE  LIFE  OF 
COLUMBUS. 

JEAN  FRANCOIS  CASMIR  DELAVIGNE. 

On  the  deck  stood  Columbus :  the  ocean's  expanse, 
Untried  and  unlimited,  swept  by  his  glance. 
*'Back  to  Spain!"  cry  his  men:  "Put  the  vessel 

about ! 
We   venture  no    further   through   danger   and 

doubt"— 
"Three  days,  and  I  give  you  a  world!"  he  replied: 
"Bear  up,  my  brave  comrades; — three  days  shall 

decide." 
He  sails, — ^but  no  token  of  land  is  in  sight : 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  115 

He  sails, — but  the  day  shows  no  more  than  the 

night : 
On,  onward  he  sails,  while  in  vain  o'er  the  lee 
The  lead  is  plunged  down  through  a  fathomless 

sea. 


The  pilot,  in  silence,  leans  mournfully  o'er 
The  rudder,  which  creaks  mid  the  billowy  roar: 
He  hears  the  hoarse  moan  of  the  spray-driving 

blast. 
And  its  funeral  wail  through  the  shrouds  of  the 

mast. 
The  stars  of  far  Europe  have  sunk  from  the  skies. 
And  the  great  Southern  Cross  meets  his  terrified 

eyes; 
But,  at  length,  the  slow  dawn,  softly  streaking  the 

night. 
Illumes  the  blue  vault  with  its  faint  crimson  light. 
"Columbus!  'tis  day,  and  the  darkness  is  o'er." — 
"Day !  and  what  dost  thou  see?" — "Sky  and  ocean. 

No  more!" 

The  second  day's  past,  and  Columbus  is  sleeping, 
While  Mutiny  near  him  its  vigil  is  keeping: 
"Shall  he  perish?"— "Ay !  death!"  is  the  barbarous 
cry; 


116  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

**He  must  triumph  to-morrow,  or,  perjured,  must 

diel" 
Ungrateful  and  blind! — shall  the  world-linking 

sea, 
He  traced  for  the  Future,  his  sepulchre  be? 
Shall  that  sea,  on  the  morrow,  with  pitiless  waves, 
Fling  his  corse  on  that  shore  which  his  patient  eye 

craves? 
The  corse  of  an  humble  adventurer,  then : 
One  day  later, — Columbus,  the  first  among  men! 

But,  hush!  he  is  dreaming! — ^A  veil  on  the  main. 
At  the  distant  horizon,  is  parted  in  twain. 
And  now,  on  his  dreaming  eye, — rapturous  sight! 
Fresh  bursts  the  New  World  from  the  darkness 

of  night ! 
O,  vision  of  glory!  how  dazzling  it  seems! 
How  glistens    the    verdure!    how    sparkle    tiie 

streams! 
How  blue  the  far  mountains !  how  glad  the  green 

isles ; 
And  the  earth  and  the  ocean,  how  dimpled  with 

smiles ; 
"Joy!    joy!"    cries    Columbus,    "this    region   is 

mine!" — 
Ah!  not  e'en  its  name,  wondrous  dreamer  is  thine! 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  117 

But,  lo !  his  dream  changes ; — a  vision  less  bright 
Comes  to  darken  and  banish  that  scene  of  delight. 
The  gold-seeking  Spaniards,  a  merciless  band. 
Assail  the  meek  natives,  and  ravage  the  land. 
He  sees  the  fair  palace,  the  temple  on  fire, 
And  the  peaceful  Cazique,  'mid  their  ashes  expire: 
He  sees,  too, — O,  saddest!  O,  mournfuUest  sight! 
The  crucifix  gleam  in  the  thick  of  the  fight. 
More  terrible  far  than  the  merciless  steel 
Is  the  uplifted  cross  in  the  red  hand  of  Zeal! 

Again  the  dixum  changes.  Columbus  looks  forth, 
And  a  bright  constellation  beholds  in  the  Njorth. 
'Tis  the  herald  of  empire !    A  People  appear. 
Impatient  of  wrong,  and  unconscious  of  fear! 
They  level  the  forest;  they  ransack  the  seas: 
Each  zone  finds  their  canvas  unfurled  to  the 

breeze. 
"Hold!"  Tyranny  cries;  but  their  resolute  breath 
Sends    back    the    reply,    ^'Independence    or 

Death!" 
The  ploughshare  they  turn  to  a  weapon  of  might. 
And,  defying  all  odds,  they  go  forth  to  the  fight. 

They  have  conquered!  The  People,  with  grateful 
acclaim 

Look  to  Washington's  guidance  from  Washing- 
ton's fame; — 


118  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

Behold  Cincinnatus  and  Cato  combined 
In  his  patriot  heart  and  republican  mind. 
O,  type  of  true  manhood !    What  sceptre  or  crown 
But  fades  in  the  light  of  thy  simple  renown? 
And  lo !  by  the  side  of  the  Hero,  a  Sage, 
In  Freedom's  behalf,  sets  his  mark  on  the  age : 
Whom  Science  adoringly  hails,  while  he  wrings 
The  lightning  from  Heaven,  the  sceptre  from 
kings! 

At   length,    o'er   Columbus   slow   consciousness 

breaks, — 
TLand!  land!"  cry  the  sailors;  "land!  land!" — ^he 

awakes — 
He  runs, — ^yes!  behold  it! — it  blesseth  his  sight: 
The  land!    O,  dear  spectacle!  transport!  delight! 
O,  generous  sobs,  which  he  cannot  restrain! 
What  will  Ferdinand  say?  and  the  Future?  and 

Spain? 
He  will  lay  this  fair  land  at  the  foot  of  the 

Throne: 
His  King  will  repay  all  the  ills  he  has  known : 
In  exchange  for  a  world  what  are  honors  and 

gains? 
Or  a  crown?     But  how  is  he  rewarded? — with 

chains! 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  119 

DESTRUCTION    OF    THE 
PHILISTINES. 

JOHN  MILTON. 

Occasions  drew  me  early  to  the  city ; 
And,  as  the  gates  I  entered  with  sunrise, 
The  morning  trumpets  festival  proclaimed 
Through  each  high  street :  little  I  had  despatched, 
When  all  abroad  was  rumored  that  this  day 
Samson  should  be  brought  forth,  to  show  the 

People 
Proof  of  his  mighty  strength  in  feats  and  games. 
I  sorrowed  at  his  captive  state,  but  minded 
Not  to  be  absent  at  that  spectacle. 

The  building  was  a  spacious  theatre 

Half  round,  on  two  main  pillars  vaulted  high. 

With  seats  where  all  the  lords,  and  each  degree 

Of  sort,  might  sit,  in  order  to  behold: 

The  other  side  was  open,  where  the  throng 

On  banks  and  scaffolds  under  sky  might  stand: 

I  among  these  aloof  obscurely  stood. 

The  feast  and  noon  grew  high,  and  sacrifice 

Had  filled  their  hearts  with  mirth,  high  cheer,  and 

wine. 
When  to  their  sports  they  turned.    Immediately 


120  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

Was  Samson  as  a  public  servant  brought, 
In  their  state  livery  clad :  before  him  pipes, 
And  timbrels, — on  each  side  went  armed  guards. 
Both  horse  and  foot, — before  him  and  behind, 
Archers,  and  slingers,  cataphracts  and  spears. 

At  sight  of  him,  the  People  with  a  shout 
Rifted  the  air,  clamoring  their  god  with  praise. 
Who  had  made  their  dreadful  enemy  their  thrall. 
He,  patient,  but  undaunted,  where  they  led  him, 
Came  to  the  place;  and  what  was  set  before  him, 
Which  without  help  of  eye  might  be  essayed, 
To  heave,  puU,  draw  or  break,  he  still  performed 
All  with  incredible,  stupendous  force: 
None  daring  to  appear  antagonist. 
At  length,  for  intermission  sake,  they  led  him 
Between  the  pillars :  he  his  guide  requested 
( For  so  from  such  as  nearer  stood  we  heard) , 
As  over-tired,  to  let  him  lean  a  while 
With  both  his  arms  on  those  two  massy  pillars 
That  to  the  arched  roof  gave  main  support. 

He,  unsuspicious,  led  him:  which  when  Samson 
Felt  in  his  arms,  with  head  a  while  inclined. 
And  eyes  fast  fixed  he  stood,  as  one  who  prayed, 
Or  some  great  matter  in  his  mind  revolved : 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  121 

At  last  with  head  erect,  thus  cried  aloud: — 

"Hitherto,  Lords,  what  your  commands  imposed 

I  have  performed,  as  reason  was,  obeying, 

Not  without  wonder  or  delight  beheld: 

Now  of  my  own  accord  such  other  trial 

I  mean  to  show  you  of  my  strength,  yet  greater, 

As  with  amaze  shall  strike  all  who  behold." 


This  uttered,  straining  all  his  nerves,  he  bowed : 
As  with  the  force  of  winds  and  waters  pent. 
When  mountains  tremble,  those  two  massy  pillars 
With  horrible  convulsion  to  and  fro 
He  tugged,  he  shook,  till  down  they  came,  and 

drew 
The  whole  roof  after  them,  with  burst  of  thunder 
Upon  the  heads  of  all  who  sat  beneath, 
Lords,  ladies,  captains,  counsellors,  or  priests, 
Their  choice  nobility  and  flower,  not  only 
Of  this,  but  each  Philistian  city  round. 
Met  from  all  parts  to  solemnize  this  feast. 
Samson,  with  these  inmixed,  inevitably 
Pulled  down  the  same  destruction  on  himself: 
The  vulgar  only  'scaped,  who  stood  without. 


122  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

THE  CHARGE  BY  THE  FORD. 

THOMAS  DUNN  ENGLISH. 

Eighty  and  nine  with  their  captain 
Rode  on  the  enemy's  track, 

Rode  in  the  gray  of  the  morning: 
Nine  of  the  ninety  came  back. 

Slow  rose  the  mist  from  the  river, 
Lighter  each  moment  the  way ; 

Careless  and  tearless  and  fearless 
Galloped  they  on  to  the  fray. 

Singing  in  tune,  how  the  scabbards 
Loud  on  the  stirrup-irons  rang, 

Clinked  as  the  men  rose  in  saddle, 
Fell  as  they  sank  with  a  clang. 

What  is  it  moves  by  the  river, 
Jaded  and  weary  and  weak? 

Gray-backs — a  cross  on  their  banner — 
Yonder  the  foe  whom  they  seek. 

Silence !  They  see  not,  they  hear  not, 
Tarrying  there  by  the  marge : 

Forward!  Draw  sabre!  Trot!  Gallop! 
Charge!  like  a  hurricane,  charge!' 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  123 

Ah !  'twas  a  man- trap  infernal — 
Fire  like  the  deep  pit  of  hell! 

Volley  on  volley  to  meet  them, 
Mixed  with  the  gray  rebels'  yell. 


Ninety  had  ridden  to  battle, 
Tracing  the  enemy's  track, — 

Ninety  had  ridden  to  battle. 
Nine  of  the  ninety  came  back. 


Honor  the  name  of  tne  ninety; 

Honor  the  heroes  who  came 
Scatheless  from  five  hundred  muskets. 

Safe  from  the  lead-bearing  flame. 

Eighty  and  one  of  the  troopers 
Lie  on  the  field  of  the  slain — 

Lie  on  the  red  field  of  honor: 
Honor  the  nine  who  remain! 


Cold  are  the  dead  there,  and  gory, 
There  where  their  life-blood  was  spilt; 

Back  come  the  living,  each  sabre 
Red  from  the  point  to  the  hilt. 


124  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

Give  them  three  cheers  and  a  tiger! 

Let  the  flags  wave  as  they  come! 
Give  them  the  blare  of  the  trumpet! 

Give  them  the  roll  of  the  drum ! 


THE  FIREMAN. 

F.  S.  HILL. 

Hark!  that  alarm-bell,  'mid  the  wintry  storm! 
Hear  the  loud  shout !  the  rattling  engines  swarm. 
Hear  that  distracted  mother's  cry  to  save 
Her  darling  infant  from  a  threatened  grave! 
That  babe  who  lies  in  sleep's  light  pinions  bound. 
And  dreams  of  heaven,  while  hell  is  raging  round! 
Forth  springs  the  Fireman — stay!  nor  tempt  thy 

fate! — 
He  hears  not — heeds  not — nay,  it  is  too  late! 
See  how  the  timbers  crash  beneath  his  feet! 
O,  which  way  now  is  left  for  his  retreat? 
The  roaring  flames  already  bar  his  way, 
Like  ravenous  demons  raging  for  their  prey! 
He  laughs  at  danger, — pauses  not  for  rest, 
Till  the  sweet  charge  is  folded  to  his  breast. 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  125 

Now,  quick  brave  youth,  retrace  your  path, —  but 

lo! 
A  fiery  gulf  yawns  fearfully  below! 
One  desperate  leap ! — lost !  lost — the  flames  arise. 
And  paint  their  triumph  on  the  o'erar,ching  skies! 
Not  lost!  again  his  tottering  form  appears! 
The  applauding  shouts  of  rapturous  friends  he 

hears ! 
The  big  drops  from  his  manly  forehead  roll. 
And  deep  emotions  thrill  his  generous  soul. 

But  struggling  nature  now  reluctant  yields; 
Down  drops  the  arm  the  infant's  face  that  shields. 
To  bear  the  precious  burden  all  too  weak ; 
When,  hark! — the  mother's  agonizing  shriek! 
Once  more  he's  roused, — ^his  eye  no  longer  swims. 
And  tenfold  strength  reanimates  his  limbs; 
He   nerves   his    faltering    frame    for   one    last 

bound, — 
**Your  child!"  he  cries,  and  sinks  upon  the  ground! 

And  his  reward  you  ask ; — reward  he  spurns ; 
For  him  the  father's  generous  bosom  burns, — 
For  him  on  high  the  widow's  prayer  shall  go, — 
For  him  the  orphan's  pearly  tear-drop  flow. 
His  boon, — the  richest  e'er  to  mortals  given, — 
Approving  conscience,  and  the  smile  of  Heaven ! 


126  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

A  BORDER  BALLAD. 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 

March,  march,  Ettrick  and  Teviotdale, 

Why  the  deil  dinna  ye  march  forward  in  order? 
March,  march,  Eskdale  and  Liddesdale, 

All  the  Blue  Bonnets  are  bound  for  the  Border. 

Many  a  banner  spread 

Flutters  above  your  head. 
Many  a  crest  that  is  famous  in  story; 

Mount  and  make  ready  then, 

Sons  of  the  mountain  glen. 
Fight  for  the  Queen  and  our  old  Scottish  glory. 

Come  from  the  hills  where  the  hirsels  are  grazing, 

Come  from  the  glen  of  the  buck  and  the  roe ; 
Come  to  the  crag  where  the  beacon  is  blazing, 
Come  with  the  buckler,  the  lance,  and  the  bow. 
Trumpets  are  sounding, 
War-steeds  are  bounding. 
Stand  to  your  arms  then,  and  march  in  good 
order; 

England  shall  many  a  day 
Tell  of  the  bloody  fray. 
When  the  Blue  Bonnets  came  over  the  Border! 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  127 

THE  PRESS. 

EBENEZER    ELLIOT. 

God  said— 'Xet  there  be  light!" 
Grim  darkness  felt  His  might, 
And  fled  away : 
Then  startled  seas  and  mountains  cold 
Shone  forth,  all  bright  in  blue  and  gold, 
And  cried—"  'Tis  day!  'tis  day!" 

"Hail,  holy  light!"  exclaimed 
The  thunderous  cloud  that  flamed 
O'er  daisies  white ; 
And  lo !  the  rose,  in  crimson  dressed. 
Leaned  sweetly  on  the  lily's  breast. 

And,  blushing,  murmured — "Light." 

Then  was  the  skylark  bom ; 
Then  rose  the  embattled  corn; 
Then  floods  of  praise 
Flowed  o'er  the  sunny  hills  of  noon; 
And  then,  in  stillest  night,  the  moon 
Poured  forth  her  pensive  rays. 

Lo,  Heaven's  bright  bow  is  glad 
Lo,  trees  and  flowers,  all  clad 
In  glory,  bloom ! 


128  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

And  shall  the  immortal  sons  of  God 
Be  senseless  as  the  trodden  clod, 
And  darker  than  the  tomb? 


No,  by  the  mind  of  man! 
By  the  swart  artisan! 
We  will  aspire ! 
Our  souls  have  holy  light  within. 
And  every  form  of  grief  and  sin 
Shall  see  and  feel  its  fire. 

By  all  we  hope  of  Heaven, 
The  shroud  of  souls  is  riven  1 
Mind,  mind  alone 
Is  light,  and  hope,  and  life,  and  power! 
Earth's  deepest  night,  from  this  blessed  hour. 
The  night  of  mind, — ^is  gone! 

"The  Press!"  all  lands  shall  sing; 
The  Press,  the  Press  we  bring. 
All  lands  to  bless. 
O,  pallid  Want!  O,  Labor  stark! 
Behold!  we  bring  the  second  ark! 
The  Press,  the  Press,  the  Press! 


Forward  !  Draw  sabre !  Trot !  Gallop  ! 
Charge!  like  a  hurricane,  Charge! — Page  13Q. 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  129 

DANNY  DEEVER. 

RUDYARD  KIPLING. 

"What  are  the  bugles  blowin'  for?"  said  Files-on- 

Parade. 
''To  turn  you  out,  to  turn  you  out,"  the  Color- 
Sergeant  said. 
"What  makes  you  look  so  white,  so  white?"  said 

Files-on-Parade. 
"I'm  dreadin'  what  I've  got  to  watch,"  the  Color- 
Sergeant  said. 

For  they're  hangin'  Danny  Deever,  you 

can  'ear  the  Dead  March  play, 
The  regiment's  in  'oUow  square — they're 

hangin'  him  to-day; 
They've  taken  of  his  buttons  off  an'  cut  his 

stripes  away, 
An'  they're  hangin'  Danny  Deever  in  the 
mornin'. 

"What  makes  the  rear-rank  breathe  so  'ard?" 
said  Files-on-Parade. 

"It's  bitter  cold,  it's  bitter  cold,"  the  Color-Ser- 
geant said. 

"What  makes  that  front-rank  man  fall  down?" 
said  Files-on-Parade. 


130  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

"A  touch  of  sun,  a  touch  of  sun,"  the  Color-Ser- 
geant said. 

They  are  hangin'  Danny  Deever,  they  are 
marchin'  of  'im  round. 

They  'ave  'alted  Danny  Deever  by  'is  cof- 
fin on  the  ground; 

An'  'e'U  swing  in  'arf  a  minute  for  a  sneakr 
in',  shootin'  hound — 

O  they're  hangin'  Danny  Deever  in  the 
mornin' ! 

"  'Iscot  was  right-'and  cot  to  mine,"  said  Files-on 

Parade. 
"E's  sleepin'  out  an'  far  to-night,"  the  Color-Ser- 
geant said. 
"I've  drunk  'is  beer  a  score  o'  times,"  said  Files- 

on-Parade. 
*'  'E's  drinkin'  bitter  beer  alone,"  the  Color-Ser- 
geant said. 

They  are  hangin'  Danny  Deever,  you  must 

mark  'im  to  'is  place. 
For  'e  shot  a  comrade  sleepin' — ^you  must 

look  'im  in  the  face; 
Nine  'undred  of  'is  country  an'  the  regi- 
ment's disgrace, 
While  they're  hangin'  Danny  Deever  in 
the  mornin'. 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  131 

'What's  that  so  black  agin  the  sun?"  said  Files- 

on-Parade. 
'It's  Danny  fightin'  'ard  for  life,"  the  Color-Ser- 
geant said. 
'What's  that   that   whimpers   over   'ead?"   said 

Files-on-Parade. 
'It's  Danny's  soul  that's  passin'  now,"  the  Color- 
Sergeant  said. 

For  they're   done  with  Danny  Deever, 

you  can  'ear  the  quickstep  play. 
The  regiment's    in    column,    an'  they're 

marchin'  us  away; 
Ho!  the  young  recruits  are  shakin',  an' 

they'll  want  their  beer  to-day. 
After    hangin'    Danny    Deever    in    the 
mornin.' 


A  BALLAD  OF  ATHLONE; 

OTj  How  They  Broke  Down  the  Bridge 

AUBREY  DE  VERE. 

Does  any  man  dream  that  a  Gael  can  fear?— 
Of  a  thousand  deeds  let  him  learn  but  one4 

The  Shannon  swept  onward,  broad  and  clear, 
Between  the  leaguers  and  worn  Athlone.  • 


132  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

"Break  down  the  bridge!" — Six  warriors  rushed 
Through  the  storm  of  shot  and  the  storm  of 
shell: 

With  late,  but  certain,  victory  flushed 
The  grim  Dutch  gunners  eyed  them  well. 

They  wrenched  at  the  planks  'mid  a  hail  of  fire: 
They  fell  in  death,  their  work  half  done : 

The  bridge  stood  fast ;  and  nigh  and  nigher 
The  foe  swarmed  darkly,  densely  on. 

"O  who  for  Erin  will  strike  a  stroke? 
Who  hurl  yon  planks  where  the  waters  roar?" 
Six  warriors  forth  from  their  comrades  broke, 
And  flung  them  upon  that  bridge  once  more. 

Again  at  the  rocking  planks  they  dashed ; 

And  four  dropped  dead ;  and  two  remained : 
The  huge  beams  groaned,  and  the  arch  down 
crashed; — 

Two  stalwart  swimmers  the  margin  gained. 

St.  Ruth  in  his  stirrups  stood  up,  and  cried, 
"I  have  seen  no  dead  like  that  in  France!" 

With  a  toss  of  his  head  Sarsfield  replied, 

**They  had  luck,  the  dogs!     'Twas  a  merry 
chance !" 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  133 

O  many  a  year  upon  Shannon's  side, 

They  sang  upon  moor  and  they    sang   upon 
heath 
Of  the  twain  that  breasted  that  raging  tide, 
And  the  ten  that  shook  bloody  hands  with 
Death! 


THE  DYING   GLADIATOR. 

LORD  BYRON. 

I  see  before  me  the  Gladiator  lie: 
He  leans  upon  his  hand, — his  manly  brow 
Consents  to  death  but  conquers  agony. 
And  his  drooped  head  sinks  gradually  low, — 
And  through  his  side  the  last  drops,  ebbing  slow 
From  the  red  gash,  fall  heavy,  one  by  one. 
Like  the  first  of  a  thunder-shower;  and  now 
The  arena  swims  around  him — ^he  is  gone. 
Ere  ceased  the  inhuman  shout  which  hailed  the 
wretch  who  won. 

He  heard  it,  but  he  heeded  not :  his  eyes 
Were  with  his  heart,  and  that  was  far  away; 
He  recked  not  of  the  life  he  lost  nor  prize. 
But  where  his  rude  hut  by  the  Danube  lay. 
There  were  his  yomig  barbarians  all  at  play. 


134  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

There  was  their  Dacian  mother, — he,  their  sire, 
Butchered  to  make  a  Roman  hohday, — 
All  this  rushed  with  his  blood. — Shall  he  expire, 
And   unavenged? — Arise,   ye   Goths,   and   glut 
your  ire. 


GEORGE  NIDIVER. 

ANONYMOUS. 

Men  have  done  brave  deeds. 
And  bards  have  sung  thera  well; 

I  of  good  George  Nidiver 
Now  the  tale  will  tell. 

In  Calif  ornian  mountains 

A  hunter  bold  was  he ; 
Keen  his  eye  and  sure  his  aim 

As  any  you  should  see. 

A  little  Indian  boy 

Followed  him  everywhere. 
Eager  to  share  the  hunter's  joy, 

The  hunter's  meal  to  share. 

And  when  the  bird  or  deer 
Fell  by  the  hunter's  skill. 

The  boy  was  always  near 

To  help  with  right  good-will. 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  135 

One  day  as  through  the  cleft 
Between  two  mountains  steep, 

Shut  in  both  right  and  left, 
Their  questing  way  they  keep, 

.They  see  two  grizzly  bears. 

With  hunger  fierce  and  fell. 
Rush  at  them  unawares, 

Right  down  the  narrow  dell. 

The  boy  turned  round  with  screams. 

And  ran  with  terror  wild ; 
One  of  the  pair  of  savage  beasts 

Pursued  the  shrieking  child. 

The  hunter  raised  his  gun, — 
He  knew  one  charge  was  all, — 

And  through  the  boy's  pursuing  foe 
He  sent  his  only  ball. 

The  other  on  George  Nidiver 
Came  on  with  dreadful  pace; 

The  hunter  stood  unarmed. 
And  met  him  face  to  face. 

I  say  unarmed  he  stood: 

Against  those  frightful  paws 

The  rifle-butt,  or  club  of  wood. 
Could  stand  no  more  than  straws. 


136  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

George  Nidiver  stood  still, 
And  looked  him  in  the  face; 

The  wild  beast  stopped  amazed, 
Then  came  with  slackening  pace. 

Still  firm  the  hunter  stood, 
Although  his  heart  beat  high; 

Again  the  creature  stopped, 

And  gazed  with  wondering  eye. 

The  hunter  met  his  gaze. 
Nor  yet  an  inch  gave  way; 

The  bear  turned  slowly  round, 
And  slowly  moved  away. 

What  thoughts  were  in  his  mind 
It  would  be  hard  to  spell ; 

What  thoughts  were  in  George  Nidiver 
I  rather  guess  than  tell. 

But  sure  that  rifle's  aim, 

Swift  choice  of  generous  part, 

Showed  in  its  passing  gleam 
The  depths  of  a  brave  heart. 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  137 

SILVER  SHOE. 

WALTER  THORNBURY. 

The  sky  was  dimpled  blue  and  white. 

The  west  was  leaden  gray, 
Till  in  the  east  rose  a  fire  of  red, 

That  burnt  all  the  fog  away. 

The  thorn-bush  seemed  new-dipped  in  blood. 

The  firs  were  hung  with  cones, 
The  oaks  were  golden-green  with  moss. 

The  birch  wore  its  silver  zones. 

The  deer  with  skins  of  a  velvet  pile 

Were  feeding  under  the  boughs 
Of  the  oaks,  that  stretched  their  guarding  arms 

Around  the  manor-house. 

'Twas  Oh !  for  the  glossy  chestnut  mare, 

And  hurrah!  for  the  fiery  roan, 
But  the  caps  went  up  like  a  cloud  in  the  air 

For  Silver-Shoe  alone. 

We  left  the  stable,  where  the  door 

Was  nailed  with  winners'  shoes. 
And  we  trampled  out  to  the  crop-eared  down 

By  laughing  ones  and  twos. 


138  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

The  diamond  seed  of  sprinkling  dew 
From  the  firs  were  shaking  down, 

As  we  cantered  out  by  the  dark-thorned  trees, 
And  over  the  green  hill-crown. 

The  chestnut  mare  was  dancing  mad, 
The  roan  gave  a  snorting  shout, 

3nt  you  never  heard  a  rolling  cheer 
Till  Silver-Shoe  came  out. 

The  starter  waved  his  scarlet  flag. 

And  then  we  stole  along, 
Past  the  line  of  rails  and  the  nodding  heads, 

And  past  the  thicker  throng. 

Gathering  up,  we  trod,  we  trod. 

Till  like  a  boat  well  rowed. 
Together  went  our  hoofs  thrown  out. 

So  evenly  we  strode. 

And  now  we  skirt  the  crescent  down. 
Past  the  crimson-spotted  thorns. 

And  away  we  go  with  a  toss  of  hats 
And  a  driving  blast  of  horns. 

Pad,  pad  together  went  our  hoofs. 
Ting,  ting  the  rings  and  chains, 

Chat,  chat,  chatter  over  the  stones. 
And  splash  through  the  red-clay  lanes. 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  139 

A  white  froth  rose  on  our  horses'  mouths, 

A  lather  on  their  hides, 
And  soon  blood-drops  from  the  rowel  pricks 

Oozed  red  from  dripping  sides. 

There  was  a  black  mare,  Yorkshire  bred. 

And  the  strong-built  Irish  gray, 
But  Silver-Shoe  was  the  only  one 

To  show  them  all  the  way. 

Strong  and  wide  was  his  massy  chest. 

And  bright  his  deep-brown  eye; 
He  could  do  anything  but  walk , 

And  everything  but  fly. 

I  knew  the  music  of  his  feet 

Over  the  hollow  down ; 
He  was  the  chosen  of  the  ten, 

And  the  pet  of  Salisbury  town. 

Over  we  went,  like  skimming  birds. 

Clean  over  the  wattled  fence, 
And  crash  through  the  bristling  purple  hedge, 

With  its  thorny  mailed  defence. 

The  chestnut  fell,  at  the  water-leap. 

With  its  shining  fourteen  feet ; 
At  the  double  rail  the  roan  broke  down, 

But  the  black  mare  was  not  beat. 


140  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

Together  went  our  double  shoes, 

Together  went  our  stride, 
Till  I  saw  the  blood  in  a  crimson  thread 

Run  down  Black  Bessy's  side. 

I  pushed  him  at  the  brook  and  hedge. 

And  never  touched  a  twig, 
But  I  shuddered  to  see  a  stiff  strong  fence 

That  rose  up  bold  and  big. 

Now  ghastly  rose  the  rasping  fence. 
Broad  yawned  the  ditch  below; 

I  gave  him  head,  and  gave  him  spur, 
And  let  my  wild  blood  go. 

The  black  was  down,  and  I  was  clear, 
Though  staggering  and  blown; 

As  I  rode  in  trusty  Silver-Shoe 
His  saddle  seemed  a  throne. 


,The  sky  was  spinning  like  a  wheel, 
The  trees  were  waltzing  too. 

As  oif  I  leaped,  and  clapped  the  flank 
Of  the  winner — Silver-Shoe. 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  141 

MAZEPPA'S  BIDE. 

LORD  BYRON. 

"  *Bring  forth  the  horse!' — the  horse  was  brought, 

In  truth,  he  was  a  noble  steed, 

A  Tartar  of  the  Ukraine  breed. 
Who  looked  as  though  the  speed  of  thought 
Were  in  his  limbs ;  but  he  was  wild, 

Wild  as  the  wild  deer,  and  untaught. 
With  spur  and  bridle  undefiled, — 

'T  was  but  a  day  he  had  been  caught ; 
And  snorting,  with  erected  mane. 
And  struggling  fiercely,  but  in  vain. 
In  the  full  foam  of  wrath  and  dread 
To  me  the  desert-born  was  led ; 
They  bound  me  on,  that  menial  throng. 
Upon  his  back  with  many  a  thong; 
Then  loosed  him  with  a  sudden  lash, — 
Away! — away! — and  on  we  dash! 
Torrents  less  rapid  and  less  rash. 

"Away! — away! — My  breath  was  gone, — 
I  saw  not  where  he  hurried  on ; 
'Twas  scarcely  yet  the  break  of  day. 
And  on  he  foamed, — away! — away! — 
The  last  of  human  sounds  which  rose, 
As  I  was  darted  from  my  foes. 


142  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

Was  the  wild  shout  of  savage  laughter, 
Which  on  the  wind  came  roaring  after 
A  moment  from  that  rabble  rout ; 
With  sudden  wrath  I  wrenched  my  head, 
And  snapped  the  cord  which  to  the  mane 
Had  bound  my  neck  in  lieu  of  rein, 
And,  writhing  half  my  form  about. 
Howled  back  my  curse ;  but  midst  the  tread. 
The  thunder  of  my  courser's  speed, 
Perchance  they  did  not  hear  nor  heed: 


"Away,  away,  my  steed  and  I, 
Upon  the  pinions  of  the  wind, 
All  human  dwellings  left  behind; 
We  sped  like  meteors  through  the  sky, 
When  with  its  crackling  sound  the  night 
Is  checkered  with  the  northern  light : 
Town, — village, — none  were  on  our  track, 

But  a  wild  plain  of  far  extent. 
And  bounded  by  a  forest  black; 

And,  save  the  scarce  seen  battlement 
On  distant  heights  of  some  strong  hold, 
Against  the  Tartars  built  of  old. 


"But  fast  we  fled,  away,  away, 
And  I  could  neither  sigh  nor  pray; 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  143 

And  my  cold  sweat-drops  fell  like  rain 
Upon  the  courser's  bristling  mane; 
But,  snorting  still  with  rage  and  fear, 
He  flew  upon  his  far  career ; 
At  times  I  almost  thought,  indeed, 
He  must  have  slackened  in  his  speed ; 
But  no, — ^my  bound  and  slender  frame 

Was  nothing  to  his  angry  might. 
And  merely  like  a  spur  became : 
Each  motion  which  I  made  to  free 
My  swoln  limbs  from  their  agony 

Increased  his  fury  and  affright : 
I  tried  my  voice, — 't  was  faint  and  low, 
But  yet  he  swerved  as  from  a  blow ; 
And,  starting  to  each  accent,  sprang 
As  from  a  sudden  trumpet's  clang; 
Meantime  my  cords  were  wet  with  gore. 
Which,  oozing  through  my  limbs,  ran  o'er; 
And  in  my  tongue  the  thirst  became 
A  something  fierier  far  than  flame. 


"We  neared  the  wild  wood, — 'twas  so  wide, 
I  saw  no  bounds  on  either  side; 
'Twas  studded  with  old  sturdy  trees. 
That  bent  not  to  the  roughest  breeze 
Which  howls  down  from  Siberia's  waste. 
And  strips  the  forest  in  its  haste, — 


144  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

But  these  were  few  and  far  between, 

Set  thick  with  shrubs  more  young  and  green, 

Luxuriant  with  their  annual  leaves, 

Ere  strown  by  those  autumnal  eves 

That  nip  the  forest's  foliage  dead, 

Discolored  with  a  lifeless  red, 

Which  stands  thereon  like  stiif  ened  gore 

Upon  the  slain  when  battle's  o'er. 

And  some  long  winter's  night  hath  shed 

Its  frost  o'er  every  tombless  head. 

So  cold  and  stark  the  raven's  beak 

May  peck  unpierced  each  frozen  cheek : 

'T  was  a  wild  haste  of  underwood. 

And  here  and  there  a  chestnut  stood. 

The  strong  oak,  and  the  hardy  pine; 

But  far  apart, — and  well  it  were. 
Or  else  a  different  lot  were  mine, — 

The  boughs  gave  way,  and  did  not  tear 
My  limbs ;  and  I  found  strength  to  bear 
My  wounds,  already  scarred  with  cold, — 
My  bonds  forbade  to  loose  my  hold. 
We  rustled  through  the  leaves  like  wind, 
Left  shrubs  and  trees  and  wolves  behind ; 
By  night  I  heard  them  on  the  track. 
Their  troop  came  hard  upon  our  back 
With  their  long  gallop,  which  can  tire 
The  hound's  deep  hate,  and  hunter's  fire ; 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  145 

Where'er  we  flew  they  followed  on. 

Nor  left  us  with  the  morning  sun ; 

Behind  I  saw  them,  scarce  a  rood, 

At  daybreak  winding  through  the  wood, 

And  through  the  night  had  heard  their  feet 

Their  stealing,  rustling  step  repeat. 

O,  how  I  wished  for  spear  or  sword, 

At  least  to  die  amidst  the  horde, 

And  perish — if  it  must  be  so — 

At  bay,  destroying  many  a  foe ! 

When  first  my  courser's  race  begun 

I  wished  the  goal  already  won; 

But  now  I  doubted  strength  and  speed. 

Vain  doubt!  his  swift  and  savage  breed 

Had  nerved  him  like  the  mountain  roe ; 

"The  wood  was  passed;  't  was  more  than  noon. 
But  chill  the  air,  although  in  June ; 
Or  it  might  be  my  veins  ran  cold, — 
Prolonged  endurance  tames  the  bold ; 


"What  marvel  if  this  worn-out  trunk 
Beneath  its  woes  a  moment  sunk? 
The  earth  gave  way,  the  skies  rolled  round, 
I  seemed  to  sink  upon  the  ground ; 
But  erred,  for  I  was  fastly  bound. 


146  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

My  heart  turned  sick,  my  brain  grew  sore, 
And  throbbed  awhile,  then  beat  no  more ; 
The  skies  spun  Kke  a  mighty  wheel; 
I  saw  the  trees  like  drunkards  reel, 
And  a  slight  flash  sprang  o'er  my  eyes. 
Which  saw  no  farther;  he  who  dies 
Can  die  no  more  than  then  I  died. 
O'ertortured  by  that  ghastly  ride, 
I  felt  the  blackness  come  and  go. 

And  strove  to  wake ;  but  could  not  make 
My  senses  climb  up  from  below; 
I  felt  as  on  a  plank  at  sea. 
When  all  the  waves  that  dash  o'er  thee. 
At  the  same  time  upheave  and  whelm. 
And  hurl  thee  towards  a  desert  realm. 
My  undulating  life  was  as 
The  fancied  lights  that  flitting  pass 
Our  shut  eyes  in  deep  midnight,  when 
Fever  begins  upon  the  brain ; 
But  soon  it  passed,  with  little  pain, 

But  a  confusion  worse  than  such ; 

I  own  that  I  should  deem  it  much. 
Dying,  to  feel  the  same  again ; 
And  yet  I  do  suppose  we  must 
Feel  far  more  ere  we  turn  to  dust : 
No  matter;  I  have  bared  my  brow 
Full  in  Death's  face — ^before — and  now. 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  147 

"My  thoughts  came  back:  where  was  I?     Cold 

And  numb  and  giddy:  pulse  by  pulse 
Life  reassumed  its  lingering  hold. 
And  throb  by  throb, — till  grown  a  pang 

Which  for  a  moment  would  convulse. 
My  blood  reflowed,  though  thick  and  chill; 
My  ear  with  uncouth  noises  rang ; 

My  heart  began  once  more  to  thrill ; 
My  sight  returned,  though  dim;  alas! 
And  thickened,  as  it  were,  with  glass. 
Methought  the  dash  of  waves  was  nigh ; 
There  was  a  gleam  too  of  the  sky, 
Studded  with  stars ; — it  is  no  dream ; 
The  wild  horse  swims  the  wilder  stream! 
The  bright,  broad  river's  gushing  tide 
Sweeps,  winding  onward,  far  and  wide, 
And  we  are  half-way,  struggling  o'er 
To  yon  unknown  and  silent  shore. 
The  waters  broke  my  hollow  trance. 
And  with  a  temporary  strength 

My  stiffened  limbs  were  rebaptized, 
My  courser's  broad  breast  proudly  braves, 
And  dashes  off  the  ascending  waves, 
And  onward  we  advance ! 
We  reach  the  slippery  shore  at  length, 

A  haven  I  but  little  prized. 


148  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

For  all  behind  was  dark  and  drear, 
And  all  before  was  night  and  fear. 
How  many  houi'S  of  night  or  day 
In  those  suspended  pangs  I  lay, 
I  could  not  tell ;  I  scarcely  knew 
If  this  were  human  breath  I  drew. 

"With  glossy  skin,  and  dripping  mane. 

And  reeling  limbs,  and  reeking  flank, 
The  wild  steed's  sinewy  nerves  still  strain 

Up  the  repelling  bank. 
We  gain  the  top ;  a  boundless  plain 
Spreads  through  the  shadow  of  the  night, 

And  onward,  onward,  onward,  seems. 

Like  precipices  in  our  dreams, 
To  stretch  beyond  the  sight ; 
And  here  and  there  a  speck  of  white, 

Or  scattered  spot  of  dusky  green, 
In  masses  broke  into  the  light 
As  rose  the  moon  upon  my  right. 

But  naught  distinctly  seen 
In  the  dim  waste  would  indicate 
The  omen  of  a  cottage  gate ; 
No  twinkling  taper  from  afar 
Stood  like  a  hospitable  star ; 
Not  even  an  ignis- fatuus  rose 
To  make  him  merry  with  my  woes ; 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  149 

That  very  cheat  had  cheered  me  then! 
Although  detected,  welcome  still, 
Reminding  me,  through  every  ill, 

Of  the  abodes  of  men. 

"Onward  we  went, — but  slack  and  slow; 

His  savage  force  at  length  overspent, 
The  drooping  courser,  faint  and  low. 

All  feebly  foaming  went. 
A  sickly  infant  had  had  power 
To  guide  him  forward  in  that  hour; 

But  useless  all  to  me. 
His  new-born  tameness  naught  availed, — 
My  limbs  were  bound;  my  force  had  failed, 

Perchance,  had  they  been  free. 
With  feeble  efforts  still  I  tried 
To  rend  the  bonds  so  starkly  tied. 

But  still  it  was  in  vain; 
My  limbs  were  only  wrung  the  more. 
And  soon  the  idle  strife  gave  o'er 

Which  but  prolonged  their  pain ; 
The  dizzy  race  seemed  almost  done, 
Although  no  goal  was  nearly  won ; 
Some  streaks  announced  the  coming  sun, — 

How  slow,  alas !  he  came ! 
Methought  that  mist  of  dawning  gray 
Would  never  dapple  into  day; 


150  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

How  heavily  it  rolled  away, — 

Before  the  eastern  flame 
Rose  crimson,  and  deposed  the  stars. 
And  called  the  radiance  from  their  cars, 
And  filled  the  earth,  from  his  deep  throne. 
With  lonely  lustre,  all  his  own. 

"Up  rose  the  sun;  the  mists  were  curled 

Back  from  the  solitary  world 
Which  lay  around — behind — before. 
What  booted  it  to  traverse  o'er 
Plain,  forest,  river?     Man  nor  brute. 
Nor  dint  of  hoof,  nor  print  of  foot, 
Lay  in  the  wild  luxuriant  soil ; 
No  sign  of  travel, — none  of  toil ; 
The  very  air  was  mute ; 
And  not  an  insect's  shrill  small  horn, 
Nor  matin  bird's  new  voice,  was  borne 
From  herb  nor  thicket.     Many  a  werst, 
Panting  as  if  his  heart  woulid  burst, 
The  weary  brute  still  staggered  on ; 
And  still  we  were,  or  seemed,  alone. 
At  length,  while  reeling  on  our  way, 
Methought  I  heard  a  courser  neigh 
From  out  yon  tuft  of  blackening  firs. 
Is  it  the  wind  those  branches  stirs? 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  151 

No,  no!  from  out  the  forest  prance 

A  trampling  troop ;  I  see  them  come ! 
In  one  vast  squadron  they  advance ! 

I  strove  to  cry, — my  lips  were  dumb. 
The  steeds  rush  on  in  plunging  pride; 
But  where  are  they  the  reins  to  guide? 
A  thousand  horse, — and  none  to  ride! 
With  flowing  tail,  and  flying  mane. 
Wide  nostrils,  never  stretched  by  pain, 
Mouths  bloodless  to  the  bit  or  rein, 
And  feet  th^t  iron  never  shod, 
And  flanks  unscarred  by  spur  or  rod, 
A  thousand  horse,  the  wild,  the  free, 
Like  waves  that  follow  o'er  the  sea. 

Came  thickly  thundering  on. 
As  if  our  faint  approach  to  meet; 
The  sight  renerved  my  courser's  feet, 
A  moment  staggering,  feebly  fleet, 
A  moment,  with  a  faint  low  neigh. 

He  answered  and  then  fell: 
With  gasps  and  glazing  eyes  he  lay^ 

And  reeking  limbs  immovable, 

His  first  and  last  career  is  done ! 
On  came  the  troop, — they  saw  him  stoop. 

They  saw  me  strangely  bound  along 
His  back  with  many  a  bloody  thong: 


152  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

They  stop, — they  start, — they  snuff  the  air, 
Gallop  a  moment  here  and  there, 
Approach,  retire,  wheel  round  and  round, 
Then  plunging  back  with  sudden  bound, 
Headed  by  one  black  mighty  steed, 
Who  seemed  the  patriarch  of  his  breed, 

Without  a  single  speck  or  hair 
Of  white  upon  his  shaggy  hide ; 
They  snort,  they  foam,  neigh,  swerve  aside, 
And  backward  to  the  forest  fly. 
By  instinct,  from  a  human  eye. 

They  left  me  there  to  my  despair. 
Linked  to  the  dead  and  stiffening  wretch. 
Whose  lifeless  limbs  beneath  me  stretch. 
Relieved  from  that  unwonted  weight, 
From  whence  I  could  not  extricate 
Nor  him  nor  me,  and  there  we  lay 

The  dying  on  the  dead ! 
I  little  deemed  another  day 
Would  see  my  houseless,  helpless  head. 

"And  there  from  morn  till  twilight  bound, 
I  felt  the  heavy  hours  toil  round. 
With  just  enough  of  life  to  see 
My  last  of  suns  go  down  on  me. 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  153 

'  MONCONTOUB. 

THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY. 

O,  weep  for  Moncontour!  O,  weep  for  the  hour 
When  the  children  of  darkness  and   evil   had 

power; 
When  the  horsemen  of  Valois  triumphantly  trod 
On  the  bosoms  that  bled  for  their  rights  and  their 

God. 

O,  weep  for  Moncontour!   O,  weep  for  the  slain 
Who  for  faith  and  for  freedom  lay  slaughtered 

in  vain! 
O,  weep  for  the  living,  who  linger  to  bear 
The  renegade's  shame  or  the  exile's  despair ! 

One  look,  one  last  look,  to  the  cots  and  the  towers, 
To  the  rows  of  our  vines  and  the  beds  of  our 

flowers ; 
To  the  church  where  the  bones  of  our  fathers 

decayed, 
Where  we  fondly  had  deemed  that  our  own  should 

be  laid. 

Alas !  we  must  leave  thee,  dear  desolate  home. 
To  the  spearman  of  Uri,  the  shavelings  of  Rome; 


154  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

To  the  serpent  of  Florence,  the  sultan  of  Spain ; 
To  the  pride  of  Anjou,  and  the  guile  of  Lorraine. 

Farewell  to  thy  fountains,  farewell  to  thy  shades, 
To  the  song  of  thy  youths,  the  dance  of  thy  maids ; 
To  the  breath  of  thy  gardens,  the  hum  of  thy 

bees, 
And  the  long  waving  line  of  the  blue  Pyrenees! 

Farewell  and  forever!    The  priest  and  the  slave 
May  rule  in  the  halls  of  the  free  and  the  brave ; 
Our  hearths  we  abandon, — our  lands  we  resign, — 
But,  Father,  we  kneel  to  no  altar  but  thine. 


WILLIAM    TELL   AMONG    THE 
MOUNTAINS. 

J.  S.  KNOWLES. 

Ye  crags  and  peaks,  I'm  with  you  once  again! 
I  hold  to  you  the  hands  you  first  beheld. 
To  show  they  still  are  free.    Methinks  I  hear 
A  spirit  in  your  echoes  answer  me. 
And  bid  your  tenant  welcome  to  his  home 
Again! — O  sacred  forms,  how  proud  you  look! 
How  high  you  lift  your  heads  into  the  sky ! 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  155 

How  huge  you  are !  how  mighty,  and  how  free ! 
Ye  are  the  things  that  tower,  that  shine, — ^whose 

smile 
Makes  glad,  whose  frown  is  terrible,  whose  forms, 
Robed  or  unrobed,  do  all  the  impress  wear 
Of  awe  divine.     Ye  guards  of  liberty, 
I'm  with  you  once  again! — I  call  to  you 
With  all  my  voice ! — I  hold  my  hands  to  you, 
To  show  they  still  are  free.    I  rush  to  you 
As  though  I  could  embrace  you! 

Scaling  yonder  peak, 

I  saw  an  eagle  wheeling  near  its  brow 

O'er  the  abyss : — his  broad-expanded  wings 

Lay  calm  and  motionless  upon  the  air. 

As  if  he  floated  there  without  their  aid. 

By  the  sole  act  of  his  unlorded  will. 

That  buoyed  him  proudly  up.    Instinctively 

I  bent  my  bow ;  yet  kept  he  rounding  still 

His  airy  circle,  as  in  the  delight 

Of  measuring  the  ample  range  beneath 

And  round  about ;  absorbed,  he  heeded  not 

The   death  that  threatened  him.      I   could   not 

shoot — 
'T  was  liberty! — I  turned  my  bow  aside. 
And  let  him  soar  away! 


156  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

THE  EXECUTION  OF  MONTROSE. 

WILLIAM  EDMONDSTOXJKE  AYTOUN. 

The  morning  dawned  full  darkly, 

The  rain  came  flashing  down, 
And  the  jagged  streak  of  the  levin-bolt 

Lit  up  the  gloomy  town. 
The  thunder  crashed  across  the  heaven, 

The  fatal  hour  was  come ; 
Yet  aye  broke  in,  with  muffled  beat. 

The  'larum  of  the  drum. 
There  was  madness  on  the  earth  below 

And  anger  in  the  sky. 
And  young  and  old,  and  rich  and  poor. 

Came  forth  to  see  him  die. 

Ah  God!  that  ghastly  gibbet! 

How  dismal 't  is  to  see 
The  great  tall  spectral  skeleton, 

The  ladder  and  the  tree ! 
Hark!  hark!  it  is  the  clash  of  arms, — 

The  bells  begin  to  toll,— 
"He  is  coming!  he  is  coming! 

God's  mercy  on  his  soul!" 
One  last  long  peal  of  thunder, — 

The  clouds  are  cleared  away. 
And  the  glorius  sun  once  more  looks  down 

Amidst  the  dazzling  day. 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  157 

"He  is  coming!  he  is  coming!" 

Like  a  bridegroom  from  his  room 
Came  the  hero  from  his  prison 

To  the  scaffold  and  the  doom* 
There  was  glory  on  his  forehead. 

There  was  lustre  in  his  eye, 
And  he  never  walked  to  battle 

More  proudly  than  to  die. 
There  was  color  in  his  visage, 

Though  the  cheeks  of  all  were  wan ; 
And  they  marveled  as  they  saw  him  pass, 

That  great  and  goodly  man! 


He  mounted  up  the  scaffold, 

And  he  turned  him  to  the  crowd; 
But  they  dared  not  trust  the  people. 

So  he  might  not  speak  aloud. 
But  he  looked  upon  the  heavens, 

And  they  were  clear  and  blue, 
And  in  the  liquid  ether 

The  eye  of  God  shone  through: 
Yet  a  black  and  murky  battlement 

Lay  resting  on  the  hill. 
As  though  the  thunder  slept  within, — 

All  else  was  calm  and  still. 


158  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

The  grim  Geneva  ministers 

With  anxious  scowl  drew  near. 
As  you  have  seen  the  ravens  flock 

Around  the  dying  deer. 
He  would  not  deign  them  word  nor  sign, 

But  alone  he  bent  the  knee ; 
And  veiled  his  face  for  Christ's  dear  grace 

Beneath  the  gallow's-tree. 
Then,  radiant  and  serene,  he  rose. 

And  cast  his  cloak  away ; 
For  he  had  ta'en  his  latest  look 

Of  earth  and  sun  and  day. 

A  beam  of  light  fell  o'er  him, 

Like  a  glory  round  the  shriven, 
A'  4  he  climbed  the  lofty  ladder 

As  it  were  the  path  to  heaven. 
Then  came  a  flash  from  out  the  cloud, 

And  a  stunning  thunder-roll ; 
And  no  man  dared  to  look  aloft. 

For  fear  was  on  every  soul. 
There  was  another  heavy  sound, 

A  hush,  and  then  a  groan ; 
And  darkness  swept  across  the  sky, — 

The  work  of  death  was  done ! 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  159 

SCREW-GUNS. 

RUDYARD  KIPLING. 

Smokin'  my  pipe  on  the  mountings,  sniffin'  the 
mornin'  cool, 

I  walks  in  my  old  brown  gaiters  along  o'  my  old 
brown  mule. 

With  seventy  gunners  be'ind  me,  an'  never  a  beg- 
gar forgets 

It's  only  the  pick  o'  the  Army  that  handles  the 
dear  little  pets — Tss!  Tss! 

For  you  all  love  the  screw-guns — ^the  screw 

guns  they  all  love  you. 
So  when  we  call  round  with  a  few  guns,  o' 

course  you  will  know  what  to  do — ^hoo! 

hoo ! 
Jest  send  in  your  Chief  an'  surrender — it's 

worse  if  you  fights  or  you  runs: 
You  can  go  where  you  please,  you  can  skid 

up  the  trees,  but  you  don't  get  away 

from  the  guns. 

They  send  us  along  where  the  roads  are,  but  most- 
ly we  goes  where  they  ain't ; 

We'd  climb  up  the  side  of  a  sign-board,  an'  trust 
to  the  stick  o'  the  paint ; 


160  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

We've  chivied  the  Naga  an'  Lushai,  we've  give 

the  Af reedeeman  fits, 
For  we  fancies  ourselves  at  two  thousand,  we 

guns  that  are  built  in  two  bits — Tss !  Tss ! 
For  you  all  love  the  screw-guns — 

If  a  man  doesn't  work,  why,  we  drills  'im  an' 

teaches  'im  'ow  to  be'ave ; 
If  a  beggar  can't  march,  why,  we  kills  'im  an' 

rattles  'im  into  'is  grave. 
You've  got  to  stand  up  to  our  business  an'  spring 

without  snatchin'  or  fuss. 
D'  you  say  that  you  sweat  with  the  field-guns? 

By  God,  you  must  lather  with  us — Tss!  Tss! 
For  you  all  love  the  screw-guns — 

The  eagles  is  screamin'  around  us,  the  river's  a- 
moanin'  below. 

We're  clear  o'  the  pine  an'  the  oak-scrub,  we're 
out  on  the  rocks  an'  the  snow. 

An'  the  wind  is  as  thin  as  a  whip-lash  what  car- 
ries away  to  the  plains 

The   rattle    an'    stamp   o'    the    lead-mules — the 
jinglety-jink  o'  the  chains — Tss!  Tss! 
For  you  all  love  the  screw-guns — 

There's  a  wheel  on  the  Horns  o'  the  Mornin,  an' 
a  wheel  on  the  edge  o'  the  Pit, 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  161 

An'  a  drop  into  nothin'  beneath  us  as  straight  as  a 

beggar  can  spit ; 
With  the  sweat  runnin'  out  o'  your  shirt-sleeves 

an'  the  sun  off  the  snow  in  your  face, 
An'  'arf  o'  the  men  on  the  drag-ropes  to  hold  the 

old  gun  in  'er  place — Tss !  Tss ! 

For  you  all  love  the  screw-guns — 

Smokin'  my  pipe  on  the  mountings,  sniffin'  the 
momin'  cool, 

I  climbs  in  my  old  brown  gaiters  along  o'  my  old 
brown  mule. 

The  monkey  can  say  what  our  road  was — the  wild- 
goat  'e  knows  where  we  passed. 

Stand  easy,  you  long-eared  old  darlin's !  Out  drag- 
ropes!  With  shrapnel!  Hold  fast! — Tss! 
Tss! 

Bor   you    all   love    the  screw-guns — the 

screw-guns  they  all  love  you! 
So  when  we  take  tea  with  a  few  guns,  o' 

course  you  will  know  what  to  do — hoo! 

hoo! 
Just  send  in  your  Chief  and  surrender — 

it's  worse  if  you  fights  or  you  runs : 
You  may  hide  in  the  caves,  they'll  be  only 

your  graves,  but  you  don't  get  away 

from  the  guns ! 


162  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

A   CAVALRY  SONG. 

EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN. 

Our  good  steeds  snuiF  the  evening  air. 
Our  pulses  with  their  purpose  tingle; 
The  foeman's  fires  are  twinkling  there; 
He  leaps  to  hear  our  sabres  jingle; 

Halt! 
Each  carbine  send  its  whizzing  ball: 
Now,  cling !  clang !  forward  all, 
Into  the  fight ! 

Dash  on  beneath  the  smoking  dome : 

Through  level  lightnings  gallop  nearer ! 
One  look  to  Heaven !  No  thoughts  of  home : 
The  guidons  that  we  bear  are  dearer. 

Charge! 
Cling!  clang!  forward  all! 
Heaven  help  those  whose  horses  fall : 
Cut  left  and  right ! 

They  flee  before  our  fierce  attack! 

They  fall!  they  spread  in  broken  surges. 
Now,  comrades,  bear  our  wounded  back, 
And  leave  the  f  oeman  to  his  dirges. 

Wheel! 
The  bugles  sound  the  swift  recall: 
Cling!  clang!  backward  all! 
Home,  and  good  night ! 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  163 

KOSCIUSKO  AND  POLAND. 

THOMAS  CAMPBELL. 

Warsaw's  last  champion  from  her  height  sur- 
veyed, 
Wide  o'er  the  fields,  a  waste  of  ruin  laid; 
"O   Heaven!"  he  cried,   "my  bleeding  country 

save ! — 
Is  there  no  hand  on  high  to  shield  the  brave? 
Yet,  though  destruction  sweep  those  lovely  plains. 
Rise,  fellow-men!  our  country  yet  remains! 
By  that  dread  name,  we  wave  the  sword  on  high. 
And  swear  for  her  to  live — with  her  to  die!" 

He  said,  and  on  the  rampart-heights  arrayed 
His  trusty  warriors,  few,  but  undismayed; 
Firm-paced  and  slow,  a  horrid  front  they  form, 
Still  as  the  breeze,  but  dreadful  as  the  storm; 
Low  murmuring  sounds  along  the  banners  fliy, 
Revenge,  or  death, — the  watchword  and  reply; 
Then  pealed  the  notes,  omnipotent  to  charm, 
And  the  loud  tocsin  tolled  their  last  alarm! — 

In  vain,  alas!  in  vain,  ye  gallant  few! 
From  rank  to  rank  your  volleyed  thunder  flew : — 
O,  bloodiest  picture  in  the  book  of  Time! 
Sarmatia  fell,  unwept,  without  a  crime; 
Found  not  a  generous  friend,  a  pitying  foe, 
Strength  in  her  arms,  nor  mercy  in  her  woe ! 


164  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

Dropped  from  her  nerveless  grasp  the  shattered 

spear, 
Closed  her  bright  eye,  and  curbed  her  high  career; 
Hope,  for  a  season,  bade  the  world  farewell, 
And  Freedom  shrieked — as  Kosciusko  fell! 


THE  PRIVATE  OF  THE  BUFFS. 

SIR  FRANCIS  HASTINGS  DOYLE. 

Last  night,  among  his  fellow  roughs. 

He  jested,  quaffed,  and  swore ; 
A  drunken  private  of  the  Buffs, 

Who  never  looked  before. 
To-day,  beneath  the  foeman's  frown. 

He  stands  in  Elgin's  place. 
Ambassador  from  Britain's  crown. 

And  type  of  all  her  race. 

Poor,  reckless,  rude,  low-born,  untaught. 

Bewildered,  and  alone, 
A  heart,  with  English  instinct  fraught, 

He  yet  can  call  his  own. 
Ay,  tear  his  body  limb  from  limb, 

Bring  cord  or  axe  or  flame, 
He  only  knows  that  not  through  him 

Shall  England  come  to  shame. 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  165 

Far  Kentish  hop-fields  round  him  seemed, 

Like  dreams,  to  come  and  go; 
Bright  leagues  of  cherry-blossom  gleamed, 

One  sheet  of  living  snow ; 
The  smoke  above  his  father's  door 

In  gray  soft  eddyings  hung; 
Must  he  then  watch  it  rise  no  more, 

Doomed  by  himself  so  young? 

Yes,  honor  calls ! — with  strength  like  steel 

He  put  the  vision  by; 
Let  dusky  Indians  whine  and  kneel. 

An  English  lad  must  die. 
And  thus,  with  eyes  that  would  not  shrink. 

With  knee  to  man  unbent. 
Unfaltering  on  its  dreadful  brink. 

To  his  red  grave  he  went. 

Vain  mightiest  fleets  of  iron  framed. 

Vain  those  all-shattering  guns. 
Unless  proud  England  keep  untamed 

The  strong  heart  of  her  sons ; 
So  let  his  name  through  Europe  ring, — 

A  man  of  mean  estate. 
Who  died,  as  firm  as  Sparta's  king, 

Because  his  soul  was  great. 


166  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

THE  SOLDIER'S  RETURN. 

ROBERT  BLOOMFIELD. 

How  sweet  it  was  to  breathe  that  cooler  air, 
And  take  possession  of  my  father's  chair ! 
Beneath  my  elbow,  on  the  solid  frame, 
Appeared  the  rough  initials  of  my  name, 
Cut  forty  years  before!    The  same  old  clock 
Struck  the  same  bell,  and  gave  my  heart  a  shock 
I  never  can  forget.    A  short  breeze  sprung, 
And  while  a  sigh  was  trembling  on  my  tongue. 
Caught  the  old  dangling  almanacs  behind. 
And  up  they  flew  like  banners  in  the  wind ; 
Then  gently,  singly,  down,   down,  down  they 

went. 
And  told  of  twenty  years  that  I  had  spent 
Far  from  my  native  land.    That  instant  came 
A  robin  on  the  threshold ;  though  so  tame. 
At  first  he  looked  distrustful,  almost  shy. 
And  cast  on  me  his  coal-black  steadfast  eye. 
And  seemed  to  say, — past  friendship  to  renew, — 
"Ah  ha!  old  worn-out  soldier,  is  it  you?" 
While  thus  I  mused,  still  gazing,  gazing  still, 
On  beds  of  moss  that  spread  the  window-sill, 
I  deemed  no  moss  my  eyes  had  ever  seen 
Had  been  so  lovely,  brilliant,  fresh,  and  green, 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  167 

And  guessed  some  infant  hand  had  placed  it  there. 
And  prized  its  hue,  so  exquisite,  so  rare. 
Feelings  on  feelings  mingling,  doubling  rose ; 
My  heart  felt  everything  but  calm  repose; 
I  could  not  reckon  minutes,  hours,  nor  years, 
But  rose  at  once,  and  bursted  into  tears ; 
Then,  like  a  fool,  confused,  sat  down  again. 
And  thought  upon  the  past  with  shame  and  pain ; 
I  raved  at  war  and  all  its  horrid  cost. 
And  glory's  quagmire,  where  the  brave  are  lost. 
On  carnage,  fire,  and  plunder  long  I  mused. 
And  cursed  the  murdering  weapons  I  had  used. 

Two  shadows  then  I  saw,  two  voices  heard. 
One  bespoke  age,  and  one  a  child's  appeared. 
In  stepped  my  father  with  convulsive  start, 
And  in  an  instant  clasped  me  to  his  heart. 
Close  by  him  stood  a  little  blue-eyed  maid ; 
And  stooping  to  the  child,  the  old  man  said : 
"Come  hither,  Nancy,  kiss  me  once  again; 
This  is  your  Uncle  Charles,  come  home  from 

Spain." 
The  child  approached,  and  with  her  fingers  light 
Stroked  my  old  eyes,  almost  deprived  of  sight. 
But  why  thus  spin  my  tale, — thus  tedious  be? 
Happy  old  soldier!  what's  the  world  to  me? 


168  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

THE  CHARGE  AT  WATERLOO. 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 

On  came  the  whirlwind, — hke  the  last 
But  fiercest  sweep  of  tempest-blast ; 
On  came  the  whirlwind, — steel-gleams  broke 
Like  lightning  through  the  rolling  smoke ; 

The  war  was  waked  anew. 
Three  hundred  cannon-mouths  roared  loud, 
And  from  their  throats,  with  flash  and  cloud, 

Their  showers  of  iron  threw. 
Beneath  their  fire,  in  full  career, 
Rushed  on  the  ponderous  cuirassier. 
The  lancer  couched  his  ruthless  spear. 
And,  hurrying  as  to  havoc  near. 

The  cohorts'  eagles  flew. 
In  one  dark  torrent,  broad  and  strong, 
The  advancing  onset  rolled  along. 
Forth  harbingered  by  fierce  acclaim, 
That,  from  the  shroud  of  smoke  and  flame, 
Pealed  wildly  the  imperial  name. 
But  on  the  British  heart  were  lost 
The  terrors  of  the  charging  host ; 
For  not  an  eye  the  storm  that  viewed 
Changed  its  proud  glance  of  fortitude, 
Nor  was  one  forward  footstep  stayed, 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  169 

As  dropped  the  dying  and  the  dead. 

Fast  as  their  ranks  the  thunders  tear, 

Fast  they  renewed  each  serried  square ; 

And  on  the  wounded  and  the  slain 

Closed  their  diminished  files  again, 

Till  from  their  lines  scarce  spears'  lengths  three, 

Emerging  from  the  smoke  they  see 
Helmet  and  plume  and  panoply. 

Then  waked  their  fire  at  once ! 
Each  musketeer's  revolving  knell 
As  fast,  as  regularly  fell. 
As  when  they  practice  to  display 
Their  discipline  on  festal  day. 

Then  down  went  helm  and  lance, 
Down  were  the  eagle-banners  sent, 
Down  reeling  steeds  and  riders  went. 
Corselets  were  pierced  and  pennons  rent ; 

And,  to  augment  the  fray. 
Wheeled  full  against  their  staggering  flanks, 
The  English  horsemen's  foaming  ranks 

Forced  their  resistless  way. 
Then  to  the  musket-knell  succeeds 
The  clash  of  swords,  the  neigh  of  steeds ; 
As  plies  the  smith  his  clanging  trade. 
Against  the  cuirass  rang  the  blade ; 
And  while  amid  their  close  array 
The  well-served  cannon  rent  their  way, 


170  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

And  while  amid  their  scattered  band 
Raged  the  fierce  rider's  bloody  brand, 
Recoiled  in  common  rout  and  fear 
Lancer  and  guard  and  cuirassier, 
Horsemen  and  foot, — a  mingled  host, — 
Their  leaders  fallen,  their  standards  lost. 


THE  MARCH  TO  MOSCOW. 

ROBERT  SOUTHEY. 

The  Emperor  Nap  he  would  set  out 
For  a  summer  excursion  to  Moscow; 

The  fields  were  green  and  the  sky  was  blue ; 
Morbleu!  Parbleu! 
What  a  pleasant  excursion  to  Moscow ! 

Four  hundred  thousand  men  and  more. 

Heigh-ho,  for  Moscow! 
There  were  marshals  by  dozens  and  dukes  by  the 
score. 

Princes  a  few,  and  kings  one  or  two, 
While  the  fields  are  so  green  and  the  sky  so  blue, 

Morbleu!  Parbleu! 
What  a  pleasant  excursion  to  Moscow! 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  171 

There  was  Junot  and  Augereau, 

Heigh-ho,  for  Moscow! 
Dombrowsky  and  Poniatowsky, 
General  Rapp  and  Emperor  Nap, 

Nothing  would  do, 
While  the  fields  were  so  green  and  the  sky  so  blue, 

Morbleu!  Parbleu! 
But  they  must  be  marched  to  Moscow. 

But  the  Russians  they  stoutly  turned  to. 

All  on  the  road  to  Moscow, 
Nap  had  to  fight  his  way  all  through. 
They  could  fight,  but  they  could  not  parley-vous. 
But  the  fields  were  green,  and  the  sky  was  blue, 

Morbleu!  Parbleu! 
And  so  he  got  to  Moscow ! 

They  made  the  place  too  hot  for  him, 

For  they  set  fire  to  Moscow ; 
To  get  there  had  cost  him  much  ado, 
And  then  no  better  course  he  knew. 
While  the  fields  were  green  and  the  sky  was  blue, 

Morbleu!  Parbleu! 
Than  to  march  back  again  from  Moscow. 
The  Russians  they  stuck  close  to  him. 

All  on  the  road  from  Moscow ; 
There  was  Tormazow  and  Gomalow, 


172  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

And  all  the  others  that  end  in  ow; 

Raj  ef sky  and  Noverefsky, 

And  all  the  others  that  end  in  efshy; 

Schamscheff,  SouchosaneflF,  and  Sehepeleff , 
And  all  the  others  that  end  in  eff; 

Wasitsehecoff ,  KostomarofF,  and  Theoglokoff , 
And  all  the  others  that  end  in  off; 

Milaravoditch,   and  Juladovitch,   and   Karateh- 
kowiteh, 
And  all  the  others  that  end  in  itch; 

Oscharoffsky,  and  Rostoffsky,  Kasatichkoffsky, 
And  all  the  others  that  end  in  off  shy; 
And  PlatofF  he  played  them  off, 
And  Markoff  he  marked  them  off, 
And  Tutchkoff  he  touched  them  off. 
And  Kutusoff  he  cut  them  off, 
And  Woronzoff  he  worried  them  off. 
And  Dochtoroff  he  doctored  them  off. 
And  Rodinoff  he  flogged  them  off; 
And  last  of  all  an  Admiral  came, 
A  terrible  man,  with  a  terrible  name, 
A  name  which  you  all  must  know  very  well, 
Nobody  can  speak,  and  nobody  can  spell. 

They  stuck  close  to  Nap  with  all  their  might, 
They  were  on  the  left  and  on  the  right. 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  173 

Behind  and  before,  and  by  day  and  by  night; 
Nap  would  rather  parley- vous  than  fight; 
But  parley-vous  would  no  more  do, 
Morbleu!  Parbleu! 
For  they  remembered  Moscow! 

And  then  came  on  the  frost  and  snow. 

All  on  the  road  from  Moscow ! 
The  Emperor  Nap  found,  as  he  went, 
That  he  was  not  quite  omnipotent ; 
And  worse  and  worse  the  weather  grew, 
The  fields  were  so  white  and  the  sky  so  blue, 

Morbleu!  Ventrebleu! 
What  a  terrible  journey  from  Moscow! 

The  devil  take  the  hindmost, 

All  on  the  road  from  Moscow ! 
Quoth  Nap,  who  thought  it  small  delight. 
To  fight  all  day  and  to  freeze  all  night; 
And  so,  not  knowing  what  else  to  do. 
When  the  fields  were  so  white  and  the  sky  so  blue, 

Morbleu!  Parbleu! 
He  stole  away,  I  tell  you  true. 

All  by  himself  from  Moscow. 


174  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

THE  LORD  OF  BUTRAGO. 

JOHN  GIBSON  LOCKHART. 

**Your  horse  is  faint,  my  King,  my  lord  I  your 
gallant  horse  is  sick, — 

His  limbs  are  torn,  his  breast  is  gored,  on  his  eye 
the  film  is  thick; 

Mount,  momit  on  mine,  O,  mount  apace,  I  pray 
thee,  mount  and  fly! 

Or  in  my  arms  I'll  lift  your  Grace, — their  tram- 
pling hoofs  are  night! 

"My  King,  my  King !  you're  wounded  sore, — the 

blood  runs  from  your  feet ; 
But  only  lay  a  hand  before,  and  I'll  lift  you  to 

your  seat ; 
Mount,  Juan,  for  they  gather  fast ! — I  hear  their 

coming  cry, — 
Mount,  mount,  and  ride  for  jeopardy, — I'll  save 

you  though  I  die! 

"Stand,  noble  steed!  this  hour  of  need, — be  gentle 

as  a  lamb; 
I'll  kiss  the   foam  from  off  thy  mouth, — thy 

master  dear  I  am, — 
Mount,  Juan,  mount;  whate'er  betide,  away  the 

bridle  fling. 
And  plunge  the  rowels  in  his  side. — My  horse 

shall  save  my  King! 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  I75 

"Nay,  never  speak;  my  sires,  Lord  King,  received 

their  land  from  yours, 
And  joyfully  their  blood  shall  spring,  so  be  it 

thine  secures; 
If  I  should  fly,  and  thou,  my  King,  be  found 

among  the  dead. 
How  could  I  stand  'mong  gentlemen,  such  scorn 

on  my  gray  head? 

"Castile's  proud  dames  shall  never  point  the  finger 

of  disdain, 
And  say  there's  one  that  ran  away  when  our  good 

lords  were  slain! 
I  leave  Diego  in  your  care, — you'll  fill  his  father's 

place; 
Strike,  strike  the  spur,  and  never  spare, — God's 

blessing  on  your  Grace!" 

So  spake  the  brave  Montanez,  Butrago's  lord  was 
he; 

And  turned  him  to  the  coming  host  in  steadfast- 
ness and  glee ; 

He  flung  himself  among  them,  as  they  came  down 
the  hill,— 

He  died,  God  wot!  but  not  before  his  sword  had 
drunk  its  fill. 


176  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

THE  BROADSWORDS  OF  SCOTLAND. 

JOHN  GIBSON  LOCKHART. 

Now  there's  peace  on  the  shore,  now  there's  cahn 

on  the  sea, 
Fill  a  glass  to  the  heroes  whose  swords  kept  us 

free, 
Right  descendants  of  Wallace,  Montrose,  and 
Dundee. 

O  the  broadswords  of  old  Scotland! 
And  O  the  old  Scottish  broadswords! 

Old  Sir  Ralph  Abercromby,  the  good  and  the 

brave, — 
Let  him  flee  from  our  board,  let  him  sleep  with 

the  slave. 
Whose  libation  comes  slow  while  we  honor  his 

grave. 

O  the  broadswords  of  old  Scotland!  etc. 

Though  he  died  not,  like  him,  amid  victory's  roar, 
Though  disaster  and  gloom  wove  his  shroud  on 

the  shore. 
Not  the  less  we  remember  the  spirit  of  Moore. 
O  the  broadswords  of  old  Scotland!  etc. 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  177 

Yea,  a  place  with  the  fallen  the  living  shall  claim; 
We'll  intwine  in  one  wreath  every  glorious  name, 
The  Gordon,  the  Ramsay,  the  Hope,  and  the 
Graham. 
All  the  broadswords  of  old  Scotland,  etc. 

Count  the  rocks  of  the  Spey,  count  the  groves  of 

the  Forth, 
Count  the  stars  in  the  clear,  cloudless  heaven  of 

the  north; 
Then  go  blazon  their  numbers,  their  names,  and 

their  worth. 
All  the  broadswords  of  old  Scotland!  etc. 

The  highest  in  splendor,  the  humblest  in  place, 
Stand  united  in  glory,  as  kindred  in  race, 
For  the  private  is  bi  jther  in  blood  to  his  Grace. 
O  the  broadswords  of  old  Scotland!  etc. 

Then  sacred  to  each  and  to  all  let  it  be. 

Fill  a  glass  to  the  heroes  whose  swords  kept  us 

free. 
Right  descendants  of  Wallace,  Montrose,  and 

Dundee. 

O  the  broadswords  of  old  Scotland!  etc. 


178  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

BALAKLAVA. 

ALEXANDER  B.  MEEK. 

O  the  charge  of  Balaklava ! 

O  that  rash  and  fatal  charge! 
Never  was  a  fiercer,  braver, 
Than  that  charge  at  Balaklava, 

On  the  battle's  bloody  marge! 
All  the  day  the  Russian  columns, 

Fortress  huge,  and  blazing  banks, 
Poured  their  dread  destructive  volumes 

On  the  French  and  English  ranks,- 

On  the  gallant  allied  ranks ! 
Earth  and  sky  seemed  rent  asunder 
By  the  loud  incessant  thunder! 
When  a  strange  but  stern  command- 
Needless,  heedless,  rash  command — 
Came  to  Lucan's  little  band, — 
Scarce  six  hundred  men  and  horses 
Of  those  vast  contending  forces:  — 
"England's  lost  unless  you  save  her! 
Charge  the  pass  at  Balaklava!" 

O  that  rash  and  fatal  charge, 
On  the  battle's  bloody  marge! 
Far  away  the  Russian  Eagles 

Soar  o'er  smoking  hill  and  dell, 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  179 

And  their  hordes,  hke  howling  beagles, 

Dense  and  countless,  round  them  yell! 

Thundering  cannon,  deadly  mortar. 

Sweep  the  field  in  every  quarter ! 

Never,  since  the  days  of  Jesus, 

Trembled  so  the  Chersonesus ! 

Here  behold  the  Gallic  Lilies — 
Stout  St.  Louis'  golden  Lilies — 
Float  as  erst  at  old  Ramillies ! 
And  beside  them,  lo !  the  Lion ! 
With  her  trophied  Cross,  is  flying! 

Glorious  standards! — shall  they  waver 

On  the  field  of  Balaklava? 

No,  by  Heavens !  at  that  command — 

Sudden,  rash,  but  stern  command — 

Charges  Lucan's  little  band ! 

Brave  Six  Hundred!  lo!  they  charge, 
On  the  battle's  bloody  marge! 

Down  yon  deep  and  skirted  valley. 

Where  the  crowded  cannon  play, — 
Where  the  Czar's  fierce  cohorts  rally, 
Cossack,  Calmuck,  savage  Kalli, — 

Down  that  gorge  they  swept  away! 
Down  that  new  Thermopylae, 
Flashing  swords  and  helmets  see! 


180  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

Underneath  the  iron  shower, 

To  the  brazen  cannon's  jaws. 
Heedless  of  their  deadly  power. 

Press  they  without  fear  or  pause,— 
To  the  very  cannon's  jaws! 
Gallant  Nolan,  brave  as  Roland 
At  the  field  of  Roncesvalles, 
Dashes  down  the  fatal  valley. 
Dashes  on  the  bolt  of  death. 
Shouting  with  his  latest  breath, 
"Charge,  then,  gallants!  do  not  waver. 
Charge  the  pass  at  Balaklava!" 

O  that  rash  and  fatal  charge, 
On  the  battle's  bloody  marge! 

Now  the  bolts  of  volleyed  thunder 
Rend  that  little  band  asunder, 
Steed  and  rider  wildly  screaming. 

Screaming  wildly,  sink  away; 
Late  so  proudly,  proudly  gleaming. 

Now  but  lifeless  clods  of  clay! 

Now  but  bleeding  clods  of  clay ! 
Never,  since  the  days  of  Jesus, 
Saw  such  sight  the  Chersonesus ! 
Yet  your  remnant,  brave  Six  Hundred, 
Presses  onward,  onward,  onward, 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  181 

Till  they  storm  the  bloody  pass, — 
Till,  like  brave  Leonidas, 
They  storm  the  deadly  pass ! 
Sabring  Cossack,  Calmuck,  Kalli, 
In  that  wild  shot-rended  valley, — 
Drenched  with  fire  and  blood,  like  lava. 
Awful  pass  at  Balaklava ! 

O  that  rash  and  fatal  charge, 
On  that  battle's  bloody  marge! 

For  now  Russia's  rallied  forces. 
Swarming  hordes  of  Cossack  horses. 
Trampling  o'er  the  reeking  corses. 

Drive  the  thinned  assailants  back. 

Drive  the  feeble  remnant  back. 

O'er  their  late  heroic  track! 
Vain,  alas!  now  rent  and  sundered, 
Vain  your  struggles,  brave  Two  Hundred ! 
Thrice  your  number  lie  asleep. 
In  that  valley  dark  and  deep. 
Weak  and  wounded  you  retire 
From  that  hurricane  of  fire, — 
That  tempestuous  storm  of  fire, — 
But  no  soldiers,  firmer,  braver. 

Ever  trod  the  field  of  fame. 
Than  the  Knights  of  Balaklava, — 

Honor  to  each  hero's  name! 


182  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

Yet  their  country  long  shall  mourn 
For  her  rank  so  rashly  shorn, — 
So  gallantly,  but  madly  shorn 

In  that  jSerce  and  fatal  charge, 
On  the  battle's  bloody  marge. 


THE  LAST  BUCCANIER. 

CHARLES  KINGSLEY. 

O  England  is  a  pleasant  place  for  them  that's  rich 

and  high, 
But  England  is  a  cruel  place  for  such  poor  folks 

as  I; 
And  such  a  port  for  mariners  I  ne'er  shall  see 

again 
As  the  pleasant  Isle  of  Aves,  beside  the  Spanish 

Main. 

There  were  forty  craft  in  Aves  that  were  both 

swift  and  stout. 
All  furnished  well  with  small  arms  and  cannons 

round  about; 
And  a  thousand  men  in  Aves  made  laws  so  fair 

and  free 
To  choose  their  valiant  captains  and  obey  them 

loyally. 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  183 

Thence  we  sailed  against  the  Spaniard  with  his 

hoards  of  plate  and  gold, 
Which  he  wrung  with  cruel  torture  from  Indian 

folk  of  old; 
Likewise  the  merchant  captains,  with  hearts  as 

hard  as  stone, 
Who  flog  men  and  keelhaul  them,  and  starve  them 

to  the  bone. 

O  the  palms  grew  high  in  Aves,  and  fruits  that 

shone  like  gold. 
And  the  colibris*  and  parrots  they  were  gorgeous 

to  behold; 
And  the  negro  maids  to  Aves  from  bondage  fast 

did  flee. 
To  welcome  gallant  sailors,  a-sweeping  in  from 

sea. 

O  sweet  is  was  in  Aves  to  hear  the  landward 

breeze, 
A-swing  with  good  tobacco  in  a  net  between  the 

trees. 
With  a  negro  lass  to  fan  you,  while  you  listened 

to  the  roar 
Of  the  breakers  on  the  reef  outside,  that  never 

touched  the  shore, 

♦humming  bird. 


184  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

But  Scripture  saith,  an  ending  to  all  fine  things 

must  be; 
So  the  King's  ships  sailed  on  Aves,  and  quite  put 

down  were  we. 
All  day  we  fought  like  bull-dogs,  but  they  burst 

the  booms  at  night ; 
And  I  fled  in  a  piragua+,  sore  wounded,  from  the 

fight. 

Nine  days  I  floated  starving,  and  a  negro  lass  be- 
side, 

Till,  for  all  I  tried  to  cheer  her,  the  poor  young 
thing  she  died ; 

But  as  I  lay  a-gasping,  a  Bristol  sail  came  by, 

And  brought  me  home  to  England  here,  to  beg 
until  I  die. 

And  now  I'm  old  and  going — I'm  sure  I  can't 

tell  where ; 
One  comfort  is,  this  world's  so  hard,  I  can't  be 

worse  off  there : 
If  I  might  but  be  a  sea-dove,  I'd  fly  across  the 

main, 
To  the  pleasant  Isle  of  Aves,  to  look  at  it  once 

again. 

t  canoe. 


3  cr? 


O   D- 
^   2. 


5.  s 


.r6  Z 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  185 

LOCK  THE  DOOR,  LARISTON. 

JAMES  HOGG. 

"Lock  the  door,  Lariston,  Lion  of  Liddesdale ; 
Lock  the  door,  Lariston,  Lowther  comes  on ; 

The  Armstrongs  are  flying, 

The  widows  are  crying. 
The  Castletown's  burning,  and  Ohver's  gone! 

"Lock  the  door,  Lariston, — high  on  the  weather- 
gleam 
See  how  the  Saxon  plumes  bob  on  the  sky — 

Yoemen  and  carbineer, 

Billman  and  halberdier, 
Fierce  is  the  foray,  and  far  is  the  cry ! 

"Bewcastle  brandishes  high  his  broad  scimitar; 
Ridley  is  riding  his  fleet-footed  grey; 

Hidley  and  Howard  there, 

Wandale  and  Windermere ; 
Lock  the  door,  Lariston;  hold  them  at  bay. 

"Why  dost  thou  smile,  noble  Elliot  of  Lariston? 
Why  does  the  joy-candle  gleam  in  thine  eye? 

Thou  bold  Border  ranger, 

Beware  of  thy  danger; 
Thy  foes  are  relentless,  determined,  and  nigh." 


186  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

Jack  Elliot  raised  up  his  steel  bonnet  and  lookit, 
His  hand  grasp'd  the  sword  with  a  nervous  em- 
brace ; 

"Ah,  welcome,  brave  f oemen. 

On  earth  there  are  no  men 
More  gallant  to  meet  in  the  foray  or  chase! 

"Little  know  you  of  the  hearts  I  have  hidden  here ; 
Little  know  you  of  our  moss-troopers'  might — 

Linhope  and  Sorbie  true, 

Sundhope  and  Milburn  too, 
Gentle  in  manner,  but  lions  in  fight! 

"I  have  Mangerton,   Ogilvie,  Raeburn,   and 

Netherbie, 
Old  Sim  of  Whitram,  and  all  his  array; 
Come  all  Northumberland, 
Teesdale  and  Cumberland, 
Here  at  the  Breaken  tower  end  shall  the  fray!" 

Scowled  the  broad  sun  o'er  the  links  of  green 
Liddesdale, 

Red  as  the  beacon-light  tipped  he  the  wold; 
Many  a  bold  martial  eye 
Mirror'd  that  morning  sky. 

Never  more  oped  on  his  orbit  of  gold. 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  187 

Shrill  was  the  bugle's  note,  dreadful  the  warrior's 
shout, 

Lances  and  halberds  in  splinters  were  borne ; 
Helmet  and  hauberk  then. 
Braved  the  claymore  in  vain, 

Buckler  and  armlet  in  shivers  were  shorn. 

See  how  they  wane — the  proud  files  of  the  Wind- 
ermere ! 

Howard!  ah,  woe  to  thy  hopes  of  the  day! 
Hear  the  wide  welkin  rend, 
While  the  Scots'  shouts  ascend — 

"EUiot  of  Lariston,  Elliot  for  aye!" 


OFFICERS  DID  IT  ALL. 

The  "General"  tells,  with  swelling  pride. 

How  the  fires  of  battle  gleamed — 
Of  the  slaughter  of  men  "on  the  other  side," 

As  the  shell  and  shrapnel  screamed ; 
How  "we  charged  the  foe  like  the  mighty  wave 

Of  a  wild  and  stormy  sea," 
But,  in  that  rush  of  the  true  and  brave, 

The  Private — ^where  was  he? 


188  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

The  ''Colonel"  boasts  how  his  horse  fell 

On  Georgia's  blood-stained  hills ; 
How  he  stemmed  the  wave  of  that  battle  hell, 

Avenging  his  country's  ills ; 
How  the  ghastly  heaps  of  the  gallant  slain 

Bestrewed  the  slippery  gromid — 
But  we  study  the  tragic  tale  in  vain, 

There  were  no  Privates  'round. 

Oh,  the  "Major's"  sword,  it  was  red  with  gore! 

And  great  was  the  foe's  alarm, 
As  they  charged,  and  halted,  and  fled,  before 

The  swing  of  his  mighty  arm ; 
But  Freedom  bumish'd  her  epaulettes. 

As  she  swatted  the  hosts  of  sin — 
And  the  lonely  pensioner  still  forgets 

That  the  Privates  were  not  in. 

How  brave  they  flew,  at  their  country's  call, 

To  the  outpost's,  far  in  front ! 
"Generals,"  "Colonels,"  and  "Majors"  all 

To  strive  in  the  battle's  brunt ; 
And  the  "Captain's"  stand,  ten  thousand  strong 

To  tell  how  the  thing  was  done — 
But  where  was  the  "Private"  in  that  throng? 

Alas,  there  was  not  one ! 

— From  the  Cleveland  ''Plain  Dealer'' 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  189 

MONTEREY. 

CHARLES  FEN^O  HOFFMAN. 

We  were  not  many, — we  who  stood 

Before  the  iron  sleet  that  day; 
Yet  many  a  gallant  sprit  would 
Give  half  his  years  if  but  he  could 

Have  been  with  us  at  Monterey. 

Now  here,  now  there,  the  shot  it  hailed 

In  deadly  drifts  of  fiery  spray, 
Yet  not  a  single  soldier  quailed 
Wheil  wounded  comrades  round  them  wailed 

Their  dying  shout  at  Monterey. 

And  on,  still  on  our  column  kept. 

Through  walls  of  flame,  its  withering  way ; 
Where  fell  the  dead,  the  living  stept. 
Still  charging  on  the  guns  which  swept 

The  slippery  streets  of  Monterey. 

The  foe  himself  recoiled  aghast. 

When,  striking  where  he  strongest  lay. 
We  swooped  his  flanking  batteries  past. 
And,  braving  full  their  murderous  blast. 
Stormed  home  the  towers  of  Monterey. 


190  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

Our  banners  on  those  turrets  wave, 

And  there  our  evening  bugles  play ; 
Where  orange  boughs  above  their  grave, 
Keep  green  the  memory  of  the  brave 
Who  fought  and  fell  at  Monterey. 

We  are  not  many, — we  who  pressed 

Beside  the  brave  who  fell  that  day ; 
But  who  of  us  has  not  confessed 
He'd  rather  share  their  warrior  rest 
Than  not  have  been  at  Monterey? 


MACGREGOR'S  GATHERING. 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 

The  moon's  on  the  lake,  and  the  mist's  on  the  brae. 
And  the  clan  has  a  name  that  is  nameless  by  day ; 

Then  gather,  gather,  gather,  Grigalach ! 

Gather,  gather,  gather,  etc. 

Our  signal  for  fight,  that  from  monarch's  we 

drew. 
Must  be  heard  but  by  night  in  our  vengeful  haloo ! 

Then  haloo,  Grigalach!  haloo,  Grigalach! 

Haloo,  haloo,  haloo,  Grigalach,  etc. 


THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER  191 

Glen  Orchy's  proud  mountains,  Coalchurn  and 

her  towers, 
Glenstrae  and  Glenlyon  no  longer  are  ours : 

We're  landless,  landless,  landless,  Grigalach! 

Landless,  landless,  landless,  etc. 

But  doomed  and  devoted  by  vassal  and  lord 
Macgregor  has  still  both  his  heart  and  his  sword ! 

Then  courage,  courage,  courage,  Grigalach! 

Courage,  courage,  courage,  etc. 

If  they  rob  us  of  name,  and  pursue  us  with 

beagles. 
Give  their  roofs  to  the  flame,  and  their  flesh  to 
the  eagles ! 
Then    vengeance,    vengeance,    vengeance, 

Grigalach ! 
Vengeance,  vengeance,  vengeance,  etc. 

While  there's  leaves  in  the  forest,  and  foam  on 

the  river, 
Macgregor,  despite  them,  shall  flourish  forever  I 
Come,  then,  Grigalach!  come  then,  Griga- 
lach! 
Come  then,  come  then,  come  then,  etc. 


192  THE  LAUREL  SPEAKER 

Through  the  depths  of  Loch  Katrine  the  steed 

shall  career, 
O'er  the  peak  of  Ben  Lomond  the  galley  shall 

steer, 
And  the  rocks  of  Craig-Royston  like  icicles  melt, 
Ere  our  wrongs  be  forgot  or  our  vengeance  un- 
felt! 
Then  gather,  gather,  gather,  Grigalach! 
Gather,  gather,  gather,  etc. 


BIVOUAC  OF   THE  DEAD. 

THEODORE  G^'hARA. 

The  muffled  drum's  sad  roll  has  beat 

The  soldier's  last  tattoo; 
No  more  on  Life's  parade  shall  meet 
That  brave  and  fallen  few. 
On  Fame's  eternal  camping-ground 

Their  silent  tents  are  spread. 
And  Glory  guards,  with  solemn  round. 

The  bivouac  of  the  dead. 


